


Baggins' Anatomy

by freakylemurcat



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Doctors, Kink Meme, M/M, Modern Era, NHS, so many dwarves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or 'The NHS and the Axe'. </p><p>This story began in a nice little countryside GP surgery, where Dr Bilbo Baggins ran his clinics as quickly and as pleasantly as he could, and thanked all that was holy that GPs didn’t have to do out of hours calls anymore. And then the mysterious Gandalf arrived during one of his pub lunches and nothing was quite the same again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From this prompt on the kink-meme:  
> 'Where's the Hospital AU guys ?
> 
> In which Bilbo is a doctor or something and Thorin is the guy who keeps coming back with injuries just to get Bilbo to patch him up.  
> Or it could be something else entirely, but still, HOSPITAL AU.  
> I'm pretty sure no one asked for this, so I'll do it, hopefully someone will fill this hahaha :D'
> 
> Thanks to my darling TheRisorious for the title. She's amazeballs.

This story began in a nice little countryside GP surgery, where Dr Bilbo Baggins ran his clinics as quickly and as pleasantly as he could, and thanked all that was holy that GPs didn’t have to do out of hours calls anymore.

Not that he was lazy or anything of the sort, but Dr Baggins was a happily settled sort of chap, who’d come into medicine because his father had been a GP and had never seen much joy in the chaos of hospital work. He had much preferred to settle down in his father’s old surgery and watch over his little area’s population of hobbits and Men in a absently caring sort of fashion, noting births and deaths and little changes in family life he had never experienced himself, but enjoyed seeing happening to others.

Anyway, the Shire was a lovely bit of countryside, full of rolling hills, good farmland and cosy villages, not too far from the little town of Bree and beyond the elf cities of Rivendell and Lothlorien. The population was mainly hobbit based, but there were the odd families of Men and an occasional elf to spice up Bilbo’s patient registries. None of this was much bother – Men were probably the most fragile of the three races, as hobbits were hardy and quick folk and elves were bloody impossible to kill unless you ran over them in a bus – but there was a hospital in nearby Rivendell that treated nigh on everyone. Dr Baggins did not have to worry too much for his patients wellbeing.

 

* * *

 

This morning was a fine morning, and Bilbo had enjoyed his walk down into the sleepy village of Hobbiton and to his little surgery. Already he had seen a little old lady with an ear infection, a family of little hobbit children all dosed with some sort of seasonal cough and a she-elf looking for confirmation of a pregnancy test.

With that small joy out of the way, Dr Baggins went for lunch, and so it was in the pub that Gandalf the social worker found our wise little GP.

“Dr Bilbo Baggins?”

Bilbo looked up from his sandwich, startled, and found himself facing the belt buckle of a Man. He had such a beard Bilbo might have thought him a dwarf, but he towered over all in the little pub, stooping to avoid smacking his head on the rafters.

“Good afternoon?” said Bilbo, deciding to be polite even though he hated having his lunch interrupted. He stood and shook the man’s hand, gesturing for him to sit. The Green Dragon wasn’t necessarily the best place to hold a consultation, but if that was what the man wanted, that was what he would get. “How may I help you?”

“I am Gandalf,” said the man, tucking his beard into the belt of his trousers in a way Bilbo thought unsavoury. “And I am looking for someone for… an adventure, let us put it that way.”

Bilbo partially choked on a bite of his sandwich and had to take a good gulp of his water to clear his throat. “An adventure?!” He laughed hollowly, “Not me, I’m afraid! My adventure was attending medical school, and I only managed that by the skin of my teeth. Here I sit with many fewer liver and brain cells than I should otherwise have!”

“Your mother would frown on you!” said Gandalf, and Bilbo squinted at him in minor annoyance. His mother had been a Took, fierce for a hobbit, and had spent the last few years of her life flitting in and out of dangerous places and delivering goods and aid. She had been a doctor too, and had served her time in Rivendell Teaching Hospital as an obstetrician and a professor, much to her calmer husband’s mild horror. Bilbo still felt her influence urging him to wildness and strange places, but had so far never succumbed; he was irritated to be reminded of his Took side when he had been enjoying such a Baggins-y day. Gandalf seemed to sense his upset. “For now,” he said, “All I need you to do is take on some new patients in your surgery. They are not quite your normal folk, but they have all the necessary documents and are pleasant enough.”

“Why should I?” said Bilbo, even though he was already reaching to his bag for his diary so he could jot this down.

“They are dwarves far from their home,” said Gandalf, standing again, “And I am their social worker. Fear not, Dr Baggins, the papers are already with your receptionist!” And like that he was gone.

Bilbo briefly considered bolting out after him, but then realised all eyes in the pub were already on him. Keen to avoid further embarrassment, he huddled down in his seat and ate the rest of his sandwich in silence – it took a lot more that an unexpected visitor to put a hobbit off his lunch – before he retreated back to his surgery.

The receptionist was stowing files into drawers when he padded in and leant over the shorter half of the desk to see what messages had been left for him – this was one of many problems living in a world where few races were quite the same size, never minding the issue of the car. There were a few letters responding to his referrals, some bumf from drug and equipment suppliers and then one final piece of grey paper with a big letter ‘G’ scrawled in the middle.

“Oh thank you for the reminder, Mr Gandalf,” grumbled Dr Baggins, and he went off to hold his weekly diabetes clinic.

 

* * *

 

A few days had passed, and Dr Baggins had almost forgotten Gandalf the social worker’s sudden arrival and invitation to ‘adventure’ – horrible thing that it was – completely.

He had just finished a spectacularly dull afternoon’s work, finishing off letters to be sent to Rivendell, Lothlorien and one to reach the quite distant Mirkwood Hospital, when the door shook with someone’s fist hammering on it. Bilbo sat quite still for a moment, hoping he hadn’t heard the knock until it thudded again. Now the shock was over he was quite annoyed and suspected it would be hobbit children playing silly games after school, so he stomped to the front prepared to put the newcomer in their place.

It was not a hobbit child. Nor a full sized hobbit. It was a dwarf, an unfamiliar face and not a pleasant one at that! He had _tattoos_ on his _head_ , Bilbo noted with a sudden note of hysteria, big runic tattoos on his big, bald head. One of his ears appeared to have been chewed off, and he was wearing those big shit-kicking motorcycle boots that all the dwarves Bilbo had ever met preferred. The dwarf met Bilbo’s gaze through the glass door and knocked again, scowling deeply.

“I’ve come to get me prescription redone,” he shouted, producing a crumpled bit of paper from a pocket in his scruffy jeans and slapping it to the glass. “Just ran out, ye ken?”

Even as part of Bilbo’s brain screamed to run back to his consulting room and hit the silent alarm under the desk , he reached out and unlocked the door. The dwarf stomped in immediately and shoved the paper slip into the hobbit’s hands.

“You’ve left me out there an age!” The dwarf grumbled, patting his truly enormous arm muscles to rid himself of goosebumps. “Some service nowadays!”

“Should have worn a coat,” warbled Bilbo, not as perfunctorily as he would have preferred it to sound. The paper was a list of common enough drugs – mostly painkillers but nothing particularly serious, with a lonely statin at the bottom – and Bilbo looked about for any sign of a name, but couldn’t find one. “Um, excuse me, sir?”

The dwarf looked about from where he had been examining a copy of _Hobbit Home and Garden_ with a disbelieving eye, and grunted.

“Your name and date of birth, please?” Bilbo padded in behind the receptionist’s desk to use her computer.

“I am Dwalin Fundin,” growled the dwarf, rattling off his birth date as well. “Gandalf said you’d know of us by now, doctor.”

Bilbo had been staring in misery at the lists of his patients – Derek and Daniel and even a Dearholm, who had originally hailed from Rohan but had moved because of his terrible horse allergy, but no Dwalin, no dwarves at all in fact – and now started with delight. Of course! Gandalf had left the documents with his receptionist and she had filed them. Bilbo liked to have his patients’ files digitised, for ease of sharing and searching, but this wasn’t a view shared by all physicians. He pulled the stepladder over to the filing cabinet and searched for a moment before he withdrew a hefty folder indeed.

Dwalin Fundin’s medical history was a long and hideous affair, judging by the size of the file, so Bilbo didn’t read too deeply into the stack. Sure enough, he swiftly found a repeating prescription for the painkillers  - damaged shoulder in a car accident, stab wound in a knife fight, burns from a house fire – and the statin – dwarves were more prone to high cholesterol after all. He checked a few more details, and then entered the information to the computer and received the prescription in return.  After signing it inelegantly, he pushed it across the lower half of the desk to the waiting dwarf and hoped that it would send him on his way quickly.

The dwarf examined the paper narrow eyed and seemed to decide it would do. “Aye, thanks doctor. Ye wouldn’t ken a place to get some grub about here would ye?”

“The Green Dragon next door does a lovely me-“ said Bilbo before his brain told his mouth to stop talking, their favourite haunt would be full of huge, shouty dwarves if he wasn’t careful. “If you like hobbit food,” he added lamely.

“Any food would do now,” said Dwalin, opening the door and stepping away. “I’ll see ye about, doc.”

The dwarf thumped off down the pavement, and Bilbo hurried to lock the door after him, so no more could sneak in.


	2. Chapter 2

Nobody believed poor Dr Baggins that a dwarf had stopped by his clinic late in the afternoon and practically knocked his way through the door. His neighbour, one of the steadfast gardeners of the Gamgee clan, had merely smiled and dandered back into his house when Bilbo had tried to complaint to him about it, and his receptionist simply told him he had been working too hard. No one had apparently seen the dwarf, and by lunchtime Bilbo was starting to suspect he had indeed been working too hard and clearly needed a break.

Before he could pack up and repair to the Green Dragon, though, his receptionist rang through with a nervous tone to her normally steady voice.

“Um, a Mr Fundin to see you, doctor?”

Bloody hell! The dwarf was back? Well, now in the light of day Bilbo had ideas about giving him a piece of his mind for appearing so long after closing, and told the receptionist to send him through.

It was not Dwalin, with his tree trunk forearms and tattooed head, but an older dwarf, with a well cared for beard and a nice coat that Bilbo appreciated. The Shire folk didn’t much go in for jeans and t-shirts, but cotton shirts and silk waistcoats and the odd pair of corduroy trousers were always in fashion.

“Balin Fundin, Dr Baggins,” said the dwarf, eyeing the seats provided for hobbits and Men without much hope of fitting into either. Bilbo quietly pushed over the step stool and the dwarf sat on the bed instead, feet dangling.

Bilbo flicked hurriedly through the massive folder of notes the receptionist had brought to the door, decided he had no idea what was about to happen, folded his hands on his lap politely and asked, “And how can I help you today, Mr Fundin?”

He was expecting another prescription to be waved at him or something equally easy, so it was a surprise when Balin clasped his gloved hands together – why was he wearing gloves indoors on a sunny spring day, asked Bilbo’s curious Took side – and said, “I think I’m coming to that age where I’ll be needing glasses.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo, slightly nonplussed for a second by the thought of a dwarf wearing glasses, even if he was clearly a sophisticated dwarf like Balin. “Well. What has lead you to think that?”

Balin went off on a spiel about having to squint at his writing and getting dreadful headaches at the end of days reading, and confiding in Bilbo that since he was long retired it couldn’t affect his work but he still did a bit of stuff for his old lawyer associates and this was getting in the way. Meanwhile Bilbo was considering the comparative heights of himself, the old dwarf, the bed and the various chairs in the room to figure out which would be best to stand on to do his examination. He hoped dwarf eyes worked the same as hobbit and Man eyes, and that they didn’t have that glazed third eyelid affair that elves had. Perhaps he should look it up? He led on with a question about headaches that would let Balin speak for a while longer and hurriedly googled what he wanted to know. By the time Balin had fallen expectantly silent, Bilbo vaguely knew what he was doing and collected his ophthalmoscope and a chair.

The dwarf’s eyes glowed back through the viewer with a slightly iridescent glare – excellent night sight, the internet had said – but Bilbo could see nothing of interest in either eye. He hopped off the chair and got Balin to read through the lettered chart on the opposite wall and then an excerpt from a medical journal, to find the dwarf was quite spectacularly long sighted.

“You were right, I’m afraid,” he said, sitting back at his desk and grabbing a piece of paper he could add to Balin’s medical folder. “You’re going to need glasses. I’ll give you the address for the opticians over in Bucklebury, and I’m sure they’ll be glad to help.” They got plenty of odd people over in Buckland at any rate, he thought to himself as he jotted details down, so they won’t be so bothered with a venerable dwarf showing up on their doorstep.

“Thank you kindly, doctor hobbit,” said Balin, climbing down from the bed and giving it a quick once over. “You might think on getting a chair to suit your dwarf patients better. I don’t fancy having to take a climb every time I need to visit.”

“I’ll certainly think on it,” said Bilbo, even managing to mean it slightly. He pressed the directions into Balin’s hand and bid him good day. The old dwarf left with a courtly bow, and Bilbo went back to his computer to read up more on dwarven anatomy.

 

* * *

 

 

His dealings with Balin having been much more civil that those with Dwalin, Bilbo felt a little more confident in himself trotting to work the next morning. He still didn’t know why he had been chosen to be GP to a bunch of dwarves, but today he was determined to find out. He was going to track down Gandalf the social worker.

Many false leads later, Bilbo Baggins’ will was fading. He had spared every spare minute he had to dialling numbers and sending emails, and while many had heard of Gandalf, no one seemed to be able to contact him. He was sulking over a cup of strong tea, when his receptionist hurtled into the room and caused him to spill milk all down his front.

“Oh, Dr Baggins, you must come quickly! They’re bleeding all over my nice clean reception!”

Bilbo’s heart leapt into his throat. A farmer had been caught by his equipment, someone had had a car accident or a child had fallen off some equipment. Perhaps one of the elves had come a cropper in a horrible fashion that would have killed a Man or hobbit, and now Bilbo would have to be the one to keep them alive until the ambulance arrived…

In his reception, were two dwarves. They were bleeding, yes, but more shedding dirt and mud.

“Fili and Kili Durin,” they said together, and Bilbo’s brow creased as he remembered the names amid the many folders Gandalf had delivered. The blond one raised a hand that appeared to have been run through some mincing equipment, and the brunette presented a leg upon which the fabric of his jeans and his flesh appeared to have become one. Bilbo grimaced but didn’t move away. “We had a bit of an accident on our motorcycle,” said the blond one and Bilbo growled under his breath.

“Come on then,” he grumbled. “You might as well come in.”

Fili turned out to be the blond one, the elder of a pair of brothers, and he had successfully given himself road rash up most of his arm. Bilbo chided him severely about not wearing proper safety equipment, aware that his lecture was clearly going straight out the other ear, and did his best to clean and bandage the wound. It wasn’t as severe as Kili’s badly scratched leg, but neither of them would hear about going to hospital.

“Too far,” said Fili, clenching his injured hand to see how far the bandage stretched.

“Not our kind of people,” said Kili, as Bilbo picked another bit of gravel out of his ankle. “We much prefer hobbits.”

“Elves ask too many questions,” added Fili. He leant over Bilbo to peer at what the doctor was doing to his brother’s ankle. “Are you nearly done now? Thorin’s going to be murderous when he finds out what happened.”

“I would be if you’d get out of my light,” grumped Bilbo, glaring at the blond dwarf until he moved away. “So, who’s this Thorin chap?” he asked, after a minute, because all doctors are nosy at heart.

“Our uncle,” said Kili, just as a shout rang down the corridor. “Him actually! Time to go!” He hopped down off the bed, not bothering to even grab the shoe he’d had to take off. Fili had him supported in a second and they were both trotting to the back of the surgery even before Bilbo had time to put down the forceps.

“Wait!” Bilbo snatched up his roll of bandage and Kili’s shoe for want of anything else. “I still have to finish bandaging it!”

“It’s all right, doc! We’ll just take the back way out, yes?” Fili gave him a cheeky smile, and Bilbo was torn between galloping after them and going to see who was roaring about in his waiting room.

“That’s for staff only,” he said weakly, even as he heard the fire exit chunk open and slam shut. He stood disconsolately, with a shoe in one hand and a unrolling bandage in the other, and big feet stomped up behind him.

“Where are my nephews?” growled a voice, low and deep as caverns under mountains. Bilbo didn’t even need to turn to know this was a _dwarf;_ the sort of dwarf that appeared in mountain lifestyle magazines, in a home that was mostly marble and granite with a few furs thrown over the top. He turned anyway, and found he had been entirely correct and a little bit wrong as well – this was the sort of dwarf that had pictures taken for magazines kept on what Men called the ‘top shelf’ of a shop’s newspaper rack, even if it had to actually be near the bottom for the dwarves and hobbits to reach as well.

Not that any self respecting hobbit would ever purchase such smut, especially not after many weeks of talking himself into it and then never being able to pluck up the courage to buy a new one, so the old copy had to be stowed under his bed where it had gotten progressively more crumpled and dogeared and faded. That had certainly never happened to Dr Bilbo Baggins.

But now this dwarf – a great tall dwarf, hugely broad and with hands like spades, _oh dear_ \-  was looming over Bilbo and looking for the whole world like he was about to throttle somebody.

“Where are my nephews?” he repeated grimly, scowling.

Bilbo drew himself up to his meagre height – perfectly average for a hobbit, thank you very much – and said, “I’m sorry, I can’t divulge patient information.”

The dwarf stared at him for a long while and then said, “So you’re our doctor then?” in a tone of such flat disbelief that Bilbo bridled.

“Yes! I am your doctor, though no fault of my own! Gandalf brought your files to me, so now I must deal with you!” He shoved Kili’s shoe into the dwarf’s hands. “I can still refuse treatment though, so I would advise you to mind your manners.” Still seething, he stomped back into his consulting room and set about tidying the place up. As his temper cooled, leaving him feeling faintly ridiculous as always, he became aware of the presence of the dwarf in the doorway.

Fili and Kili’s uncle was watching him with grim amusement in his blue eyes, and Bilbo was torn between throwing another hissy fit and giving in and asking what he wanted.

“You better not have scared my receptionist too badly,” he said, shaking a finger at the dwarf. “I don’t tolerate that sort of thing here.”

“As well you shouldn’t.” The dwarf stepped in and closed the door quietly behind him. Bilbo was momentarily worried about what was to happen, but then the great shaggy head bowed politely, in a way that seemed old fashioned, even to an old fashioned little hobbit. “My apologies for mine and my nephews’ behaviour. These are hard days, and I forget we live amongst civil people for once.”

“Oh.” Bilbo blinked. Well, if this company of dwarves had been brought to his attentions by a social worker, of course there were problems. Maybe he had been unkind, maybe he had been just too used to the silly, folksy ways of hobbits and rural Men. “Uh. It’s all right.”

“Nevertheless.” The dwarf inclined his head again briefly and said, “I am Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Dr Bilbo Baggins,” said Bilbo, reaching out and taking the great paw of a hand the dwarf offered to shake. He feared his fingers might be crushed, but the dwarf’s grip was as delicate as a hobbit lass’s, with his terrible strength held back in his forearms. “Will I be seeing much of you?”

“A bit here and there,” said Thorin, with an odd look in his eyes. “We are new here. Gandalf said you would help.”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Bilbo honestly, because he was a good person and a good doctor. “Just try to turn up in surgery hours, and please don’t shout in the waiting room.”

Thorin laughed shortly – Bilbo blushed crimson at this – and bowed his head again. “I shall go collect my  nephews and give them my opinion on their biking habits. You will perhaps see them again?”

Bilbo nodded, shepherding the dwarf to the front door. “Tell them to keep the wounds clean and to wear better safety gear until then,” he called, “And I’ll be glad to see them whenever!”

Thorin Oakenshield trudged off down the pavement the same direction Dwalin had taken on the first night Bilbo had encountered his dwarves, and the hobbit doctor turned back to his waiting room to find the place full of patients for his asthma clinic. They were all staring at him with horrified wide gazes, but Bilbo was a Took in his heart after all and he had faced down three dwarves today, so he merely smiled and asked who was due to come through first.


	3. Chapter 3

The next encounter of the dwarvish kind would have to be postponed, as Bilbo was heading to Rivendell Teaching Hospital for a day long course on musculoskeletal and joint complaints: he was expected to deliver a short speech on gout, which was a common occurrence in a hobbit population that lived on half pints of beer, meat, fish and a table's worth of vegetables at every meal.

Being such a nice polite hobbit, Bilbo was never keen to stand up in front of crowds of Men and elves and talk, but since lunch was provided – and it was an elvish lunch, which meant absolutely delicious food, even if a lot of it was salad – he had agreed to take part. Thankfully, the day went quickly, and Bilbo’s talk had been timetabled for before lunch so he was able to indulge at the meal and come away feeling full and somnolent with it.

However, this was when Gandalf the social worker decided to appear again.

“You shan’t fit into your waistcoat if you continue to eat like that,” said the man, dropping into the empty seat beside Bilbo and giving him a severe start. “Have you met your dwarves yet?”

“My dwarv-? They are not my dwarves!” spluttered Bilbo. “They are patients, and difficult ones at that! Only one of them so far has behaved himself while in my surgery! Why have you foisted them on me, Mister Gandalf?” He was in high temper now, and a few elf physicians visiting from Lothlorien shifted away from him nervously while their slightly feisty Mirkwood cousins merely giggled behind scarred hands. Bilbo didn’t know what happened in Mirkwood Hospital, but a lot of the doctors seemed to come away with bite wounds after placements there.

“Perhaps we should have a talk,” said Gandalf, in a placating fashion. Bilbo glowered at him for a brief second and then gave up, as his Baggins nature demanded. “I shall pop around for tea someday, and we can chat, yes?” He stood before Bilbo had  chance to ask where the hell he would be popping around to, because Bag End was certainly out of the question, and swept himself majestically into the vicinity of Dr Elrond, who was a terrifying figure of an elf, and so Bilbo was left feeling befuddled again.

 

* * *

 

For the rest of the week he was left feeling on edge and aggravated, but there was no sign of Gandalf and little of the dwarves. Fili and Kili returned, sadly without the magnificent surly dwarf that was their uncle, to get their motorcycle accident wounds checked and bandaged, and left joking and cackling between themselves in the heavy dwarven language of Khuzdul. Bilbo stood in his reception and watched them go, torn between feeling annoyed, worried and disappointed.

It was on Friday night that he decided he was going to stop bothering with this dwarvish conundrum, and set to a good meal that finished with a great deal of cake. Then he sat with his feet up in the lounge of his cosy hobbit hole, watched the fire burn merrily and wished absently he hadn’t given up smoking his pipe last year. Some smoke rings would fit the atmosphere perfectly, but Bilbo had forced himself to drop the habit in the hope that his patients would to and he could reach his quota for getting people to stop smoking. It hadn’t quite worked the way he had been hoping it would have, but it had certainly made Bag End smell a bit fresher.

Just as he was about to fetch his pipe and the last scraps of Old Toby he had stowed in a little tub on the mantelpiece, someone knocked on the door. Bilbo Baggins was in such an excellent mood he crossed to the door and opened it without checking who was outside, and so found his hallway absolutely chock full of dwarf.

As he gaped at the writhing, cursing pile – how many of the bloody things were there? – Gandalf inclined his head down to peer through the low round door and said mildly, “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

 

* * *

 

Bilbo had left the dwarves to sort out tables and chairs, as he had been too baffled to bother with the task himself. Gandalf took up station in the huge old armchair kept around in case a Man visited, and watched with amusement in his sparkling eyes as the dwarves also set to plundering Bilbo’s pantries. Bilbo had sat himself in his own armchair, with a mug of well brandied tea, and tried to work out what the hell was happening to his beautiful house.

“Please don’t-“ he cried out as Fili and Kili heaved a pair of antique chairs through into the dining room, and then was immediately distracted by a dwarf in a massive hat carting through armfuls of expensive crockery. “That was my mother’s!” The a dwarf so wide as to almost be circular padded past with a pair of cheese wheels tucked under his arms. “There’s a cheese knife in the drawer, please-“ He gave up and turned his gaze to the now chuckling Gandalf. “I want my explanation.”

“All in good time, dear hobbit,” said Gandalf, bringing out his own pipe and puffing it to life without a match or lighter. Bilbo briefly wondered if it was some sort of pipe equivalent to an e-cigarette. “We must wait for our leader to arrive!”

“Leader…” said the hobbit wonderingly. Now the hubbub had calmed somewhat, he could get a count of the dwarves now milling about his dining room and feasting on his supplies. There were twelve of them, including Dwalin, Balin, Fili and Kili, and Bilbo didn’t think there was room for a single one more. He couldn’t imagine what sort of a leader the latecomer would have to be, to control this group of rowdy sods either. There were a few who were calm enough, like the chap with the fussy braids and the young one in the thick cardigan, but the rest of them were loud and messy and Bilbo could just feel a headache coming on.

“They’re good folk,” said Gandalf softly, “Once you look past all outward appearances. And they’ll be glad of a good feed tonight.”

Bilbo, soft hearted fool that he was, turned back to the social worker. “Good feed, what do you mean? Do they not normally get enough food? That’s not right.”

Gandalf shrugged and blew an impressive smoke ring that appeared to twist itself in knots above Bilbo’s head. “Dwarves do not have it easy, even in this day and age. It is a shame, but they are without a home, with only temporary roofs over their heads.”

Bilbo frowned. Of course, everyone knew dwarves were a semi-nomadic people; while Men and elves, and especially hobbits, confined themselves to certain geographical areas, dwarves spread out. They had settlements further north, mountain cities reachable by perilous mountain roads that demanded a four wheel drive car or a helicopter ride to get past them, but still they roamed. Bilbo could not remember seeing any in the Shire before now though.

Gandalf made another smoke ring drape itself over the television aerial, and Bilbo stared at it suspiciously before realisation dawned with a big clatter.

“You’re no Man!” he yelped, trying to spring from his chair and only managing to get himself tangling in the ottoman, “You’re a wizard!”

“I am glad you finally noticed!” laughed Gandalf, blowing a little smoky copy of Bilbo himself. “I was starting to worry about your observation skills.”

“You could have told me,” said Bilbo, struggling to get himself rearranged in his armchair. “Men and Wizards do rather look the same to a hobbit. Perhaps I wouldn’t have thought your appearances so odd if you had explained, and then I would have had a less stressful time of it.”

Gandalf didn’t answer, but extinguished his pipe with a tap of a long forefinger – wizards were even scarier than elves in some respect, because they were rare and no one understood what on Middle Earth they were doing half the time – and looked to the door. Bilbo looked too and so was not startled when someone knocked steadily on the outer surface.

“I’ll just get that, shall I?” he sighed, when silence had fallen amongst the previously raucous dwarves. He checked the peephole this time but could see nothing but someone’s black leather coat, and so pulled the door open and found Thorin Oakenshield on the other side.

“Well met, little hobbit,” said the dwarf, stepping through and moving straight to his kin without another word to Bilbo. There were many greetings and smiles shared, and Fili and Kili both got a slap upside the head for having ridden their motorcycle to this meeting despite only having just come off it. Bilbo peered outside and found the little lane outside Bag End to be choked with cars and motorcycles, a trike of all things and a battered minivan. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what the neighbours were saying.

He went back inside, closing and locking the door for good measure, and found the dwarves all in serious talk with Gandalf. The wizard had relit his pipe and was blowing smoke dwarves to match those crowded about the table.

“I should introduce you, Dr Baggins,” said the wizard, “Here we have Fili, Kili, Oin, Gloin, Dwalin, Balin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, Ori, and the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.” As he spoke a new smoke dwarf would light up above the dwarves’ heads, and Bilbo was able to pinpoint each of the gathering easily.

“Why are you all in my house?” he whined, when the greeting were finished and everyone was watching Thorin tuck into Bilbo’s seed cakes – using considerably better table manners than any of his friends had, Bilbo was glad to notice.

“Our dwarf friends have need of a thirteenth member of their company,” said Gandalf, trading a look with Thorin. “I have suggested you.”

“Me?” Bilbo squeaked. “Why me?”

“Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet and they can pass unseen by most if they choose,” said the wizard, puffing on his pipe again. “And you are a respected doctor. You have natural skill in sneaking, good training and expertise in the medical field and you are a trustworthy gentlehobbit. A company on a quest like this would be lucky to have you amongst its numbers.”

No number of compliments would ease Bilbo’s immediate focus on the word ‘quest’, but the dwarves had gotten caught up in a brief debate over whether Bilbo really was suitable for the tasks they obviously had planned for him. Gandalf took his pipe from his mouth and towered over them, a deep darkness sapping the light from the bulbs in the fixtures and his voice echoing off Bag End’s walls.

“If I say Bilbo Baggins is our burglar, then a burglar he is.” The wizard sank back into his chair and levelled his gaze on Thorin, who nodded and shrugged.

“Very well. Give him the contract.”

“Burglar?!” peeped Bilbo, who had needed a few seconds to regain his voice after Gandalf’s display. “Burglar?!”

Thorin leaned back in his chair – you’ll break the legs and scuff the floor, thought Bilbo slightly hysterically – and smiled dryly. “Maybe someone should explain to the good doctor what exactly we are planning. It seems only fair.”

Gandalf was the one that spoke, with brief injections by Balin who seemed to be the wisest of the assembled dwarves and Bofur who didn’t appear to be able to shut up. Bilbo stood behind Thorin’s chair and stared at the assembly in increasing horror as the tale unfolded.

Long ago, the dwarves had lived happily in the area known as the Lonely Mountain and everything had been quite spectacular.  Erebor, as their city had been called, had been a capital of gem trading and of all dwarfdom. The richest family of all had been the Durins, led by Thorin’s grandfather Thror, and they had been mayors and landlords for as long as anyone could remember.

And then Smaug had appeared. All guile and nice smiles, he had eased his way into the dwarf community, and then, just like a magic trick, whipped the world out from under the dwarves’ feet by taking their land. No one had ever figured how he had done it, not that it had mattered because there had been no way to get it back. Smaug had increased the rent on all the properties he now owned to levels that not even the richest dwarves in all of Middle Earth could afford, and those dwarves that had stayed behind on plots of land that they had themselves owned had found themselves burned out of their homes in mysterious circumstances.

The dwarves of Erebor had turned hopefully to the rest of Middle Earth but no one had been particularly concerned with their plight. The wood elves of Mirkwood had darkness brewing in their forest, those in Lothlorien and Rivendell were too far away to care and none in the world of Men bothered with the affairs of dwarves if they didn’t concern jewellery. Moria, the other great dwarf city, had been occupied by orcs many years before, and the dwarves had few places left to go.  The authorities could neither oust Smaug – for he appeared to own the Lonely Mountain legitimately – and they would not remove the orcs, because if they didn’t live in Moria they’d have to live somewhere else, like Rivendell or Minas Tirith and no one would have that. So the dwarves were stuck.

“Oh, so this Smaug’s one of those, what do you call them, land-sharks?” Bilbo said when Gandalf stopped talking briefly, peering over Bofur’s shoulder at the musty contract Balin was holding and tried to make out the spindly handwriting.

“Dragon, more like,” said Bofur, plucking at the ears of his ridiculous hat. “No one knows what he is. Swears he’s a man, but, ha!, I’ve not seen a man with eyes like his yet.”

A grumble of agreement went around the table, and Bilbo murmured, “A dragon?”

“Oh aye,” said Bofur happily, “You know – air-borne fire breather, teeth, claws? Furnace with wings? Incineration?”

“Incineration?” repeated Bilbo weakly. He had definitely not seen this evening end with the threat of being burned to death.  

“It’s all in the contract,” said Balin, handing the contract over. “You’d get a share of whatever profit there may be in the end, and I’m sure we could set you up with a nice holiday home overlooking the lake if that’s what you fancy.”

“Incineration,” said Bilbo again, because that was a major sticking point for the poor little hobbit. Gandalf hurriedly directed him to sit back down, else he faint dead away onto his rug. Bilbo read through a few more lines of the contract, eyes widening every time he came across a new description of the death he might face if he went up against this dragon as the dwarves wanted him to. ‘Evisceration’, ‘decapitation’, there was his old friend ‘incineration’ again… Oh dear…

Gandalf spoke again and told Bilbo he would be needed to slip into Smaug’s home and office and acquire the secret folders that indicated he had not come to own the Lonely Mountain in an entirely legal manner. Smaug would sniff out a dwarf within miles of the Lonely Mountain, but a hobbit would be something new entirely, and if he was caught Bilbo had the option of pretending to be a lovely respectable GP who just wanted to check up on this strange man.

“We don’t do house visits anymore,” said Bilbo weakly.

“You’ll think of an excuse,” said Gandalf, in what was meant to be a reassuring tone.

“And if the sneaking approach don’t work,” grumbled Dwalin, “There’s always the stab and run approach. A quick knife to the belly would do the worm a load of good.”

Bilbo did not like either of these options.

“I’m sorry,” said Bilbo, starting up from his chair again and staring at the collection of dwarves in grim horror, “But I don’t see how I can be of any help at all. I’m just a hobbit. You should have gone to the elves or to the Men, they would have helped. My job is to stay here and look after the people of the Shire, not to try to outwit dragons or thieve things from under their noses!” He set the contract on the ottoman and clenched his fists at his sides. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and pattered away down one of the winding corridors to a  quiet little side room where he hoped to have his peace.

No one followed him and he wasn’t sure whether he was gladdened or disappointed by that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maaan, exposition is haaaard. Also, I've totally pillaged the dialogue from the movie in places. But I'm sure you folk noticed.


	4. Chapter 4

Dr Baggins woke with a start, peeling his face from the thin pages of a medical journal he had evidently fallen asleep by reading. The dwarves had stayed long into the night, talking and drinking and, in the end, singing low songs that had made Bilbo’s heart throb in his chest. He had retired to his study on the opposite side of the hole and had tried to distract himself with work, but the last memory he had before falling asleep was of Thorin Oakenshield’s low voice rumbling through the walls.

Now he stirred himself and trotted out into the corridors. Bag End was silent and cleaner than Bilbo had seen it for a while – someone had even fixed the broken radiator in the living room, and repaired the wobbly stool that always threatened to drop Bilbo to the floor whenever he sat upon it.

Disconsolate for reasons he couldn’t even begin to understand, the hobbit padded around his home and finished standing by the fireplace in his favourite room. On the mantel, beside the fake skull he had somehow acquired in medical school and never gotten round to throwing away, was a note, signed with the florid ‘G’ Gandalf used.

It read, ‘If changed mind, meet at Green Dragon before noon. Don’t be late!’. Bilbo scoffed and shoved the paper into the fireplace dismissively, but then his eyes fell on the ottoman and there atop of it was the contract. From here he couldn’t read any words like ‘evisceration’ and ‘incineration’, but his Tookish blood was piecing letters together to spell ‘adventure’ in big neon lights in his head. 

“Oh dear!” he said, because he was not a hobbit prone to swearing, although on this occasion he would have been prepare to learn, and went to grab a pen.

 

* * *

 

The road out the front of the Green Dragon was filled with the dwarves’ transport, and a new silver sedan Bilbo hadn’t seen before. It was a Saturday, and a sunny day, so many hobbits and a few sightseeing Men from far away Rohan and Gondor were wandering the streets, and Bilbo wound his way around them as hurriedly as he could.

The dwarves appeared to be pillaging the corner shop, loading goods into the back of the mini-van and the boots of various cars. Fili and Kili were lounging by their motorcycle and cheered when Bilbo trotted past, but he ignored them and went to find Balin.

The old dwarf was reading off a list to poor Mrs Bolger who ran the shop, and she in turn was snapping orders at poor Mr Bolger who was running about and fetching things too heavy for a little hobbit with a hernia to carry. Bilbo made a note to call the hobbit back to his surgery and get that checked out before he remembered there would be none of that. He had already called for a locum to come in and replace him, so he was taking time off work, if not to adventure then to work on his garden and maybe have a holiday in the Southfarthing.

“Dr Baggins,” said Balin, noticing the newcomer and peering at him over his glasses. “Good to see you!”

“The contract,” said Bilbo, stuffing it into Balin’s hands. He was feeling a little out of breath from trotting down from Bag End so quickly and the idea he’d just agreed to be a burglar made his stomach roil. “I signed it. All nice and legal.”

“Let’s see now.” Balin examined the signature closely – just to wind him up Bilbo supposed, because why would he have forged his own damned signature? – and then snapped the contract closed with a flourish. “Glad to have you on the team. Gandalf will be looking a word, and Thorin. You might find them outside.”

Bilbo padded out, pausing to tell Mr Bolger to lift with his knees on the way. Thorin and the wizard were around the side of the building, beside the silver sedan and were discussing road conditions on the Misty Mountains. Having only crossed them a week ago to reach Rivendell and the conference, Bilbo felt like he might be able to offer assistance right up until the point Thorin made it clear he was not going anywhere near the elf city.

“Men live there too these days,” said Gandalf, frustrated, “And even some of your kin! It would be more welcoming than you are inclined to believe.”

“Elves still run the place,” growled Thorin, crossing his arms across his chest in a manner that made the dark sweater he wore under his leather coat draw tight to his muscles. Bilbo found this display very distracting and almost missed the dwarf’s next words. “And while our kin may be there, I would wager they have to live in small council homes and eke out part time menial jobs for whatever money they can find. I do not trust the elves.”

“Never mind all that,” said Gandalf crossly. He looked to Bilbo instead. “Here is our burglar, as I told you.”

Bilbo squinted at the wizard, suddenly feeling that he had been rather out thought, but said instead, “The thought of you lot tramping off into the wilderness without someone to tend the injuries you will certainly inflict upon yourselves made my blood run cold. It makes sense that I should come with.”

“Aye,” said Thorin, chuckling without much humour. “And how are your thieving skills then? Or your fighting?”

Bilbo spluttered for a moment and said, “I don’t know much about those, but I’m a dab hand with a scalpel and sutures.”

“I’ll be sure to call you when my coat needs darning then.”

The hobbit doctor stamped a hairy foot in annoyance and snapped, “Be sure to, but only if you’ve rid yourself of your temper!” He stomped away, but stopped near where Bofur and Bifur were helping load the mini-van, ears pricked for he could hear Gandalf speaking once more. He couldn’t make out the words, but when Thorin tramped by a minute later, he bowed his head to Bilbo in passing and gifted him a wry smirk and hobbits were always easy to forgive others.

They left half an hour later, and Bilbo sat in silence as the familiar sights of Hobbiton dragged past the window of his lift. Already he was feeling a bit home-sick, and a little part of him wished to run right back to his cosy hobbit hole and pretend he’d never heard of this foolhardy mission. But the Tookish part – and how he had underestimated how much of himself had been Took it seemed! – was clapping its hands and laughing with glee, for Dr Baggins was on an adventure and that was just excellent!

Bilbo rode in the grey saloon car with Gandalf at the head of the convoy. Thorin drove his black vehicle right ahead, and Fili, with Kili clinging to his waist, was far up ahead on his motorcycle.

“He’ll be killed!” said Bilbo, watching through one eye as the bike hurtled around a corner and disappeared from view. “Both of them will!”

“Dwarves are tough creatures,” said Gandalf, scowling all the same. “And Fili and Kili are equipped with especially tough heads to have survived through all their stupidity so far. Their uncle will reign them in when we stop, I’m sure.”

Bilbo subsided, slightly relieved. Already he was feeling out of his depths, and they were barely out of the Shire yet, on a road he had driven on himself! There was Maggot’s farm, where Bilbo had been called on his first week in his surgery to treat a mushroom thief who had gotten a pitchfork where the sun didn’t shine, and there was the big estate where old Bombadil lived and filmed his gardening programme for television. Soon they would be on the carriageway out past Bree and then the next stop before the Misty Mountains, if they were avoiding Rivendell after all, were the Trollshaws.

Now Bilbo did his best to be kind to all types – be they hobbit, Man, elf, dwarf or wizard. Hobbits he considered perfect, friendly and fond of home comforts and little drama. Men were odd and came in too many types to judge as a whole, but Bilbo had encountered more pleasant than not and found them tolerable on the whole. Elves he had spent most of his training around, for many of them had drifted into the medical profession for want of something else to do with their infinite time and, while many were haughty and difficult Bilbo had mastered the art of buttering them up. Wizards were best just left to their own devices. He struggled a bit when it came to orcs and trolls though: difficult in public life and difficult as patients. It had been a long time since he had last worked in a hospital, but he still recalled with horror being sent to treat an big orc’s wounds and coming away with a broken wrist. Or attempting to calm a drunken troll who had stumbled into A&E and nearly getting trodden on for his troubles. No, Bilbo did not like orcs and trolls, and his immediate problem was that the Trollshaws were nigh on full of the sods.

“Where will we stop?” he asked, and cursed under his breath when Gandalf gave the answer he had been dreading. A Travelodge in the Trollshaws, cheap and undemanding. Of course, they would be sharing rooms as well – not Gandalf, because he was not inclined to share a bed and he had important social worker business back West in Bree to deal with tonight – and that gave Bilbo something else to dread. Which dwarf would he be partnered with?

Fili and Kili would obviously share, joined at the hip as they appeared to be. And the other two sets of brothers as well surely – Oin and Gloin and Dwalin and Balin. So that left two little family trios and the smouldering cheerlessness that was Thorin Oakenshield. Perhaps Bilbo could get Bofur to share with him – he was a gregarious sort, and Bilbo could see himself growing more friendly with him. Bifur he simply couldn’t understand – and his medical instincts screamed about the axe lodged in his frontal lobe, surely something should be done about that? – and Bombur was far too big to be considering sharing a bed with. Nori, Dori and Ori all seemed nice enough, but Bilbo had not yet had enough of a chance to get to know them and jumping right into sharing a room was a unwise manoeuvre on the first night of a quest.

The thought of sharing with Thorin gave Bilbo a headache, so he stopped thinking about that as quickly as possible, rested his head on the window and watched the last of the Shire flit by.

 

* * *

 

The company drove long and hard, stopping only briefly mid-afternoon when they came across Fili and Kili standing by the side of the road and their steaming motorcycle. Everyone got out to stretch their legs – except Bombur who remained in his seat and exercised by ferociously eating a sandwich. Bilbo watched him briefly – feeling his arteries clang shut in sympathy he had to look away – and then found something much nicer to watch.

Thorin had thrown his coat back into his old Land Rover and had hauled off his jumper and the shirt beneath it. Now Bilbo was simultaneously amazed at the play of muscles under the thin cotton vest that was all that protected Thorin’s musculature from sight and by just how many damned layers all these dwarves were wearing. Fili and Thorin manhandled the bike into an easier position to work on, and Thorin took steaming pieces out, fiddled and bent them – bare handed gasped Bilbo mentally – and slotted them home again. Placed back on its wheels, the bike started with a low purr and Thorin wiped the grease from his hands and forearms – look at the size of those arms, gasped that part of Bilbo again.

“Don’t break it this time, you pair of fools,” he said, wiping a streak of black grease down the middle of Fili’s forehead. “The doctor doesn’t need to be treating you for anymore road rash quite so soon.”

Bilbo was quick to agree, tearing his gaze off Thorin’s broad back to wag a finger at the Durin brothers. They merely smirked back, although Fili’s expression was slightly ruined by the black mark he couldn’t quite seem to get off his nose. Thorin ordered them back onto the road, to a chorus of groans and grumbles, and didn’t seem to notice when Bilbo took a second or two longer to get into Gandalf’s car for watching the dwarf put his clothes back on.

 

* * *

 

 

The Trollshaws were just as bad as Bilbo remembered. It was a village, with small gangs of orcs on the street corners and groups of downtrodden Men and the odd elf just standing about, as if just existing was difficult enough without having to do something with their lives. Bilbo suspected living in the Trollshaws would make him feel that way within a week.

Thorin led the company now, and took them through the village and off onto a brief driveway to their stop for the night. Gandalf urged Bilbo out of his car, leaned out the window to say something grim and foreboding to Thorin and drove away. Bilbo watched him go and then shouldered his rucksack as the dwarves entered the reception.

At the desk was the most miserable looking elf Bilbo had ever seen. As a rule elves tended towards long vocations like medicine or law or teaching, but he supposed there had to be the odd one for whom this part of their immortal life wasn’t going quite so well. Now the elf checked in the company, no spark of life in his sunken eyes and waved them away to their rooms without a hint of curiousity why there was a crowd of dwarves and a hobbit in his hotel. Bilbo turned away with a shudder and hoped fervently Thorin would rethink avoiding Rivendell – he would like to see some cheerful elves after that.

The rooms were divvied up in much the same way as Bilbo had expected, with Bifur and Nori being the two odd ones paired amid a quintet of brothers.

“Doctor,” said Thorin, pointing a massive finger at Bilbo like the hobbit wouldn’t be sure who the doctor amongst them was. “You’ll be with me.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo, feeling delighted and horrified at the same time. “All right then.” He could feel his headache returning already.

 

* * *

 

Apparently their accommodation had used to be an old farmhouse, but Bilbo thought it would be more accurate to say it used to be a building instead of the heap it had become. At the least the sheets were clean and the bathrooms not too bad, but the rooms smelt musty and the windows had iron bars on the outside.  

The dwarves all piled into Thorin and Bilbo’s room and had a supper of sandwiches and the more perishable vegetables that could be eaten raw. Thorin, Balin and Dwalin took to a hushed conversation in the corner, while Ori lured Bilbo and the Durin brothers into a game of cards with the pack from his bag. The older dwarves sat and watched the gritty picture of the tv, grumbling their way through a news programme until Thorin stood and declared they would have an early start tomorrow, so it was time for bed.

“Fili, Kili! You  can watch the cars for tonight. This is a disreputable area, and I don’t want them damaged!”

“Yes, Uncle,” the dwarf brother chorused, but they didn’t look thrilled on their assignment. They filtered out before Bombur, who had to turn sideways to fit through the doorway, and then Bilbo Baggins, country GP and respectable hobbit, was left alone in a hotel room with Thorin Oakenshield, master of a particularly nasty scowl.

“I shall give you some privacy to get ready for bed,” said Thorin, giving Bilbo a grumpy once over and then heading into the little bathroom. Bilbo hopped around, flustered, for a minute and then grabbed his bag from the foot of the bed.

He had brought a couple changes of clothes – no pyjamas though – and a few toiletries and odds and ends a hobbit needed for a journey. What he had brought most of, though, were medical supplies – bandages and gloves and needles and sutures and various tablets and ointments and a pack of scalpel blades. Quickly, as he could hear Thorin shifting impatiently, he changed into another shirt and some fresh underclothes and called the dwarf back into the bedroom. Thorin had stripped himself down to the white vest again, and Bilbo excused himself to the bathroom hurriedly when the dwarf sat on the edge of the bed and started to remove his heavy boots.

When the rustling noises had stopped, Bilbo returned. The room was darkened, but a sallow light was cast in from the security light outside the barred window. Bilbo stared out for a long while, and then dug through his bag to find the scalpels and to snap one of the blades in place. He slipped this under his pillow and Thorin Oakenshield gave a great snort of pleased laughter.

“Perhaps you will learn how to live on the road, Doctor hobbit,” he rumbled, and Bilbo could feel his voice reverberating through the mattress. The sheet rasped over the hobbit’s arms as Thorin turned over. “Sleep well. We wake early in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin gave off heat like a furnace. He also snored, and so poor Dr Baggins was forced to huddle at the very edge of the hard mattress to try to cool down enough that he could think of wrapping the pillow about his head to block the noise, or possibly to smother himself. But the room was hot and musty and the iron bars across the windows made Bilbo not want to open them ever, and so sleep remained far out of reach.

So when someone knocked on the door at – Bilbo checked his watch and found it to be three a.m. to his horror and exhaustion – it was the hobbit doctor who answered it with the bare minimum of caution and only his scalpel in hand. Afterwards, when he was more experienced at this travelling business Bilbo would shudder with anxiety at his own behaviour, but at that point he was so tired and annoyed that it had been likely that any fool wanting to get in for nefarious purposes would have found themselves missing a large portion of their face to his tiny knife.

As it was, Fili and Kili were outside, looking sheepish. Bilbo gave them a long look and then stepped out into the corridor, holding the door open with his heel.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and grimaced when both their faces lit up with guile. Some dwarves could manage cunning, but Fili and Kili were certainly not those dwarves.

“You see,” said Fili, hooking his arm around Bilbo’s. “There’s been a bit of a problem.”

Kili caught the other arm before the hobbit could think of escaping and carefully closed the door to the room so Thorin would not be woken. “As you know, we were tasked with looking after the vehicles.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, as they led him away from his room. Every time he tried to put his feet down and stop the his movement forward, the dwarf brothers would lift him a little higher in the air so his tough bare soles wouldn’t even reach the carpet. “Because of your tomfoolery on your motorbike before, I remember. How is your leg anyway, Kili?” he asked, because if he was going to be dragged on some stupid adventure in the middle of the night he was going to make someone feel guilty about it. “And your arm, Fili?”

“Not important,” said Kili, with a little grimace. “What is important is this.” They had reached the front of the hotel now, where the dilapidated night receptionist was reading a copy of _Elf Today_ and braiding his hair. Bilbo found himself staring out at the little car park, at the two rows of vehicles – Thorin’s old Land Rover nearest, Dwalin’s odd trike, the scratched motorcycle that got the Durin boys in such trouble and Balin’s saloon. Gandalf’s silver saloon was missing, but then the wizard had had business in Bree, but so was Bofur’s minivan and Dori’s estate car. “We’re missing two.”

Bilbo stared at them both in turn and thought of a great many rude names to call them, but decided in the end on just throwing his hands in the air in desperation and asked what they thought he was going to do about their idiocy.

“Well, we’ve clearly been burgled,” said Fili, “And you’re our burglar. So you should be best at thinking of a way to fix it.”

“Have you got your braids done up too tight?” asked Bilbo incredulously. “I am a doctor. Not a burglar!”

“Shh!” Kili patted him on the head and jerked his thumb at the desk elf, but he was still morosely flicking through his magazine and clearly regretting his life choices so far. “Come on, if you don’t help us, Uncle will have our skins. We can’t afford new cars right now, and how else would we transport everyone?”

“Yeah, we could fit Bofur, Bifur, Nori, Dori and Ori in the other cars,” sighed Fili, “But there’s no possible way Bombur would fit. Never mentioning the supplies we’ve lost.”

Bilbo glanced from one to the other dwarf and felt his shoulders sag in defeat. Both young dwarves had exceptionally glum faces as they considered that their mistake could lead to the quest being over so soon, and the little hobbit felt obliged to give a token effort to help cheer them a bit.

He padded outside, shivering a little even as the night was warm. The trees clustered around gloomily and Bilbo couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched by others than the dwarves as he traipsed up and down the lines of cars, crouching in the spots where the estate and the mini-van had been parked.

In the gloom it was hard to see and Bilbo had no dwarven night-sight, but hobbits had keen enough eyes. There were great big footprints, still damp on the tarmac, and Bilbo turned to flee back to the safety of the hotel reception, when the ground shivered briefly, a big shape loomed out of the darkness, scooped Balin’s car up in massive arms and then ran away again with a mad, phlegmy laugh.

Fantastic. Trolls had their cars.


	5. Chapter 5

Bilbo stayed very still in the way that only a hobbit could for a very long time, until Fili and Kili pattered across the car park and joined him in his crouch.

“This is bad,” said Kili, “Uncle is going to kill us.”

“I’ll lend him my scalpel,” said Bilbo, even as he stood again. In the little forest beside the hotel there was a red light glimmering, which looked suspiciously like a pair of brake lights, and he could hear the raucous laughter of the troll thieves. To think that this grand adventure could be scuppered so quickly by a combination of inattentiveness and trolls! Bilbo’s Took side, already wakened from lying on a bed with Thorin Oakenshield for half the night, clenched his fists and ground his teeth. That wouldn’t do at all!

“We have the keys,” said Fili, as if he could sense the change in the tide of Bilbo’s annoyance. “If we could just get into the cars and bring them back, I’m sure the beasts wouldn’t thieve them again.”

Bilbo did another revision downwards on Fili’s age and expertise; although he had never come up against a troll in a wild setting, he had enough experience of them in hospitals to know trolls were not that easily swayed. Removing their fun would be difficult and probably only temporary.

Nevertheless, what choice did they have? Bilbo checked his pocket for his little scalpel again, wished fervently he had been wearing more than his shirt and underclothes and stepped off the tarmac and onto the leaf litter. The Durin brothers did not follow, something Bilbo was grateful for as their great motorcycle boots would have crunched and snapped on the forest floor and alerted the trolls to his approach.

He smelt them before he caught his best glimpse and wrinkled his nose as the memories of troll filled waiting rooms flooded back. They would show up drunk and belligerent, or starving and belligerent, or just belligerent and looking for someone to take it out on and Bilbo had mostly just found a senior doctor and hid at the other end of the ward until they went away. There was no such glowering consultant elf to help him this time, so he went on on his own.

Voices laughed and snorted with mildly malicious glee, and one of the car alarms went off suddenly, making Bilbo jump and catapult himself into a small shrub. He thought he might have heard one of the trolls snorts in alarm at the crunching noise he made landing in the bushes, but the alarm was too loud to be sure. There was a screech of metal – he hoped they weren’t damaging the cars, what if he was risking his neck for useless wrecks? – and then the alarm died with a low ‘plip’ noise.

“Stinkin’ alarms,” grunted one of the trolls in the silence. “I ‘ate ‘em. Why they gotta put ‘em on all cars these days, eh?”

“Spoils the fun,” agreed a higher-pitched voice. “Hey, you know, if we got some chains, I bet I could tie these ‘ere to me feet and use ‘em as rollerskates, huh? What you think?”

There was a big leathery slap and a screech of annoyance.

“No more messin’ around,” said a third voice, clearly the boss of the bunch. “We’re wantin’ to sell these off, so there’ll be no more talk of rollerskates.”

“Rollerskates, William,” said the first voice, sounding horrified by the thought. “You’d think you were some kind of poncy elf, with chat like that!”

“I think it were a good idea,” said the voice christened as William, sounding sulky. “We could sell _them_ and make money.”

“Was ‘e dropped on his ‘ead as a pebble, Tom?” asked the boss voice.

“At least once,” said Tom. “Remember the idea for skis last month, Bert?”

“Ha!” said Bert. “Or the ‘elicopter the month before that.”

“That were some good booze we ‘ad that night,” sighed Tom fondly.

“I ‘ate you both,” said William, petulantly. Bilbo now braved pulling aside a branch or two to peer out into the clearing where the trolls sat. They were gathered around the three cars – the estate had its bonnet wrenched open and the minivan had been plundered of food, clearly by breaking one of the back windows and tipping it up the wrong way. William was a funny looking thing even for a troll, and Bilbo didn’t bother too much thought on him, but Tom and Bert were big, chunky trolls.

“Oh dear,” said Bilbo to himself, trying to remember how his consultant had taught him to deal with trolls and coming up with ‘run away, run away, run away’ repeated ad nauseum in his head.

Tom rolled his shoulders and rumbled, “Should we fetch another? There were one of them there jeep thingys and some two-wheeled doohickeys.”

Bert scratched his wiry chin and looked down at his lap, where there sat a clipboard. It was a normal sized thing, and would have looked huge in Bilbo’s hands, but in comparison to the troll it was tiny. “Maybe one more, and then we’ll call it a night and send this lot off.”

Bilbo wondered what car dealership or scrapyard was desperate enough for new, cheap stock that they were paying trolls to steal for them. He froze as Tom loped past on bandy legs and then wriggled uncomfortably to find a comfier position in the shrub. He should get back to Fili and Kili to present his findings and then demand they wake Thorin, but he couldn’t risk moving until Tom came back in case they ran into each other in the woods. He scowled and shifted again, neatly jabbing a branch up his nose and making him yelp.

“’ere what was that?” grunted Bert, looking away from his clipboard. Bilbo clapped his hands over his mouth and tried to creep backwards out of the bush as silently as possible, but William gave a squeal and pointed a fat finger directly at him.

“It’s in the bush there, get it out, get it out!”

Now Bilbo made to flee, but trolls moved fast for all of their size, and he grabbed Bilbo in a grip so strong he thought his ribs might snap.

“Eww, look at it,” said William, leaning in over Bert’s shoulder. “It’s all wriggly and little.”

“It’s a ‘obbit, I think” said Bert, bringing Bilbo in closer. There was a dull intelligence in his beady black eyes – something akin to a shark, Bilbo thought – and he smiled with a mouthful of cragged teeth and some serious bad breath. “What are you doing’ out ‘ere little ‘obbit? Come to see what we’re up to?”

“Give us the cars back,” wheezed Bilbo, “They’re not yours."

“Course they ain’t _ours_ ,” said Bert, with a snort. “You think we’d fit in ‘em? Nah, these is for the market place, so we can ‘ave food and drink.”

“Mostly drink,” said William.

“Mostly drink,” agreed Bert. He looked up and away, though his grip on Bilbo didn’t slacken. “’Ere comes Tom now, with our newest ak-quiz-itch-on.”

It was Thorin’s Land Rover that was set down on the clearing floor this time, and Bilbo blinked as he spotted a pair of beady eyes watching out of the passenger’s window. It was Kili he realised, and now he struggled to play for time in case the trolls noticed the newcomer in their midst. While a hobbit was surely a novelty and no great threat, a dwarf would be much more of a problem.

“Um, so where are you taking these?” said Bilbo, wriggling an arm around in Bert’s grip so his hand could slip into his pocket and grab the scalpel. “Just out of friendly curiosity.”

“Up the Ettenmoors, to the orcs,” said William, and Tom smacked him over the head with a closed fist. “Owww! What were that for?”

“Don’t tell ‘im! What were you telling’ ‘im for?”

“’e arsked, didn’t ‘e?” William sniffed. “Only polite.”

“Quiet!” barked Bert, and his fist squeezed Bilbo’s torso tightly. “Listen!”

Trolls had tiny ears and bad hearing, but they were often a touch too stupid to use their good sense of smell to pinpoint targets. Bilbo had keen hobbit hearing and could clearly hear the scrunch of dwarven boots on leaves and twigs, the hissed whisper of orders. Kili was shifting about in the cabin of Thorin’s Land Rover, what looked like a glint of steel in his hand.

“I don’t hear anything,” said Bilbo loudly, and grunted when Bert squeezed him hard again. “Oi, stop that!” He caught the handle of his scalpel and jabbed it hard into the troll’s leathery palm; it couldn’t have been more than a fly bite, but the suddenness of the gesture made Bert yowl and drop the hobbit to the forest floor. At the same time Kili threw open the door of the Land Rover, and the rest of the dwarves spilled out of the bushes and swarmed the three trolls with dwarvish battle cries. Bilbo rolled out of the way of stomping feet, a pair of dwarven boots coming within millimetres of certainly giving him a very sore head, and crawled for safety under the mini-van.

There were screams and shouts and howls and Bilbo, brave as he had been for the past while, covered his eyes and wished he was back home in Bag End. He had had more than enough excitement for one evening.

Something shouldered against the mini-van above him, and Bilbo tried to roll with the movement of his cover, but he couldn’t shift fast enough. Like a flash, a big hand snapped closed about his ankle and he was heaved up into the air again, with a delighted shout from the troll who had caught him.

“Chuck yer knives down,” said Tom. He had bigger fists than Bert had, and his hand was crushing everything between and including Bilbo’s shoulders and his hips. The hobbit’s struggles could find no spare bit of space to move his arms or flex his ribs, and already his eyes were beginning to blotch with lack of air. “Or I’ll _squish_ ‘im.”

No one moved for what felt like years to poor Bilbo, suspended mid-air and mortally afraid he was about to be suffocated. Finally Kili was the first to throw his knives down – dear, sweet Kili, Bilbo would have been extra nice to him for days if this hadn’t been partly his damned fault in the first place – and the others followed. Thorin was the last to toss his weapons to the ground, and his glower was on fine, fine form.

“Tie ‘em up, William,” said Tom, briefly relaxing his grip on the hobbit so Bilbo was able to suck in some air. “There was some rope that fell out of that there van.”

“’ere you thinking you’re the boss now, Tom?” grumbled Bert. He scowled and crossed his arms over his flabby chest, leaving William to fumble through tying the dwarves up by himself. Tom merely glared back, his grip on Bilbo increasing until the hobbit was sure his ribs were about to collapse. The tension was broken when William finished tying up the last dwarf, a sullenly uncooperative Ori, and stood on something sharp in the leaf litter. His resultant howls and hopping were loud enough to call attention for miles, and Bert clapped a hand over his mouth and plucked out a little silver sliver from his sole.

It was Bilbo’s scalpel, which he had dropped in the kerfuffle. Tom and Bert glared at him darkly, while William was turning in circles trying to see the bottoms of his own feet.

“Dwarves is one ‘fing,” said Tom, “But what about, what you said, ‘obbits?”

“No bother,” said Bert, “I ‘eard of ‘em on telly once. Said they were small and quiet is all. No lords and ladies like those poncy elves.”

Bilbo, who was a respectable hobbit from two families quite high in the rural hierarchy of the Shire, was quite offended by that assessment of his people, but he didn’t have enough breath left to chide anyone on it.

“Haven’t eaten for days,” said Tom suddenly, “And he’s only a mouthful. No one’d miss ‘im.”

“Some idjit’d find the bones, and then we’d have all the elf detectives down on us.”

“Again,” said William helpfully, earning himself another swat.

“I’d scrunch up the bones too,” said Tom. “I ain’t that thick.”

Bert shrugged, exasperated. “Fine. Eat ‘em. See what I care.”

“Wait, wait!” squeaked Bilbo, “You can’t eat me!”

“Why not?” grumbled Tom, who had clearly been looking forward to his hobbit snack.

“Have you tasted hobbit before?” asked Bilbo, injecting all of his incredulousness into his voice. “Disgusting! We eat too many vegetables, right?” He swung his gaze down to the bound dwarves and mugged furiously for their help. Bofur was the quickest to catch on.

“Aye, they eat nothing but vegetables. Makes them all bitter and nasty to taste!”

“Horrible green food, nothing but!” shouted Ori.

“Barely any meat on them!” said Dwalin, which Bilbo thought was less than helpful.

“Right then,” said Tom, looking mildly disappointed for a second. “I’ll have a dwarf instead. I could crunch up one or two.”

The dwarf company now took their turn to glare at Bilbo for assistance, and just before Tom swung Bombur into his mouth with his free hand, Bilbo shouted, “He’s got worms! In his tubes! All of them do!”

He was intensely glad his old lecturers weren’t there to hear him resorting to ‘worms in tubes’ as a potential diagnosis, but the trolls fell for it hook, line and sinker.

“Worms?” grunted Tom, dropping Bombur onto the dwarf pile and wiping his hand on his filthy leather jerkin. “Eugh! Don’t want to be ‘aving that!”

“You shouldn’t be having any of this at all!” rumbled a voice, the noise echoing and bouncing off the trees so it was impossible to tell where the source was until they appeared. The dwarves cried out in delight, for Gandalf had returned. “Set the hobbit down, and we shall talk through this like civilised people.”

“And if I don’t,” said Tom, giving Bilbo another squeeze. “What then, beardy?”

Gandalf frowned and the light from the stars and the early sunrise that had been lighting this unfortunate meeting seemed to vanish about him as his shadow grew and grew, and he himself seemed to be as tall as the trolls and still merely a man at the same time.

“Then I shall inflict upon you grievous harm, though it shall give me no pleasure to. Would you wish to aggravate me, a wizard?!”

“No,” said William fervently. He was already stepping back.

“I thought not. Leave this place now, and run back up to your homes.” A wooden staff almost as tall as Gandalf was appeared in his hand and he struck the ground with it, tremors spreading out underfoot. William turned and fled, Bert grabbing Tom’s shoulder.  “Go now! Leave this place!”

“Come on, you lug,” Bert grunted, “It’s not worth it.”

With a disgusted snort, the troll dropped Bilbo – the second time he’d been dropped from a height in a short while – and lumbered away hurriedly.

Bert lingered in the shadows of the trees for a moment and said, “We’ll be tellin’ the orcs exactly why they aint’ gettin’ their new wheels. I’ll make es-special mention of you, mister wizard.”

“Please do,” said Gandalf, subsiding to his normal size and vanishing the staff like it was nothing. “I like to have my presence known.”

The troll scoffed and trod away, moving quickly and quietly for such a big beast in the forest. For a moment there was a tense sort of silence and then the dwarves began howling to be let loose. Bilbo and Gandalf undid the ropes and massaged feeling back into pins-and-needles crippled limbs, before the wizard shooed them to their cars.

“No time to waste, no time to waste!” he declared, “As much as I like to have my presence known, I’d rather you remained unseen! Get back to the road and head for the mountains, and perhaps we will reach them before the orcs find us.”

“How will we get the cars back to the road?” asked Bilbo, hauling himself upright.

“Just you get in the car, Dr Baggins,” said Thorin, bending down to pick up his knives. “Fili! Kili! Gather up the remains of the supplies and stow them quickly! The rest of you return to your rooms and pack up. We depart within half an hour.” He turned around, and nearly walked into Bilbo, who was feeling his ribs one by one in case any were broken. “Come along, Dr Hobbit. You shall ride with me today.”

The door of the Land Rover was slightly too high for a hobbit to reach – even without query?fractured ribs - , and Bilbo was about to complain when Thorin caught him by the scruff of his shirt, opened the door and fair tossed him inside. The dwarf lord clambered in on the other side and placed something on the dashboard before he started the engine and used his blunt nosed 4x4 as a battering ram to forge a path through the low bushes and back to the tarmac. Bilbo craned to look at it and then blushed crimson when he spotted what it was; his scalpel, the blade bent and the handle stained with fresh black blood.

“Can’t have you losing your first knife,” said Thorin, gruffly, “Won’t be long until we’ll need to be putting warrior braids into your be-“ He gave Bilbo’s chin and cheeks a quick look and amended his words smoothly. “Into your hair.”

“I don’t want warrior braids,” said Bilbo weakly. The adrenaline rush was coming crashing down, and he felt as ill as if he had been drinking all night. “How would I even get them?”

“You kill a person,” said Thorin matter-of-factly, stopping the car. “Stay here. I’ll collect your bag and you can change in the back when we move on.”

Bilbo waited patiently until the dwarf was out of sight, then opened the door, leant out and threw up last night’s meal onto the tarmac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trolls = far too much fun to write. 
> 
> Next time! We meet Radagast the Social Worker Who's Slightly Too Obsessed With Animal Therapy, the fabled Dr Elrond, and poor Lindir the Senior Registrar.


	6. Chapter 6

They fled then, vehicles in a tight convoy with Gandalf leading the way. Bilbo managed to get fully dressed again, even as Thorin’s Land Rover turned tight corners at high speed with a sickening roll and clambered back into the passenger seat. They were behind Gandalf’s car, looming down on the silver bumper, and ahead of them was the familiar dual carriageway that led to Rivendell and the passes over the mountains. The range in question was far in the distance, peaks covered in thick snow even now in the late spring, and now he was going to have to climb them, Bilbo no longer found them as pretty as he previously had.

“Are you well, hobbit?” asked Thorin, giving him a sideways look when he tipped his head to rest against the cool of the window.

Bilbo would complain about tiredness, but he wasn’t – he’d had worse nights, sitting alone in darkened wards and hoping no one would become catastrophically sick while he was still on shift – and he would complain about being scared, but he couldn’t – not with Thorin Oakenshield, who was evidently not the sort of dwarf to be afraid of anything, sitting right beside him.

“I’m fine,” he said, trying to keep his eyes open so he wouldn’t grow car sick and embarrass himself by throwing up twice in one day.

“We shall stop at noon,” the dwarf lord said, his hands clenching on the steering wheel. “Have a drink of water then and something to eat.”

“Excuse me!” said Bilbo, casting a look over at his companion. “I _am_ a doctor! I know how to keep myself hydrated!”

Thorin laughed and reached over to tweak the skin on the back of Bilbo’s hand; it was papery and dry and peaked for a second too long. “You will yet have to convince me of that, _doctor_.” He purred the title with such a rumble that Bilbo’s mouth - already parched because, damn it, Thorin was right, he was dehydrated – dried out completely. He hunkered down in the seat and stared pointedly out the side window until Thorin laughed again and patted him on the head.

Patted him on the head! Bilbo would normally be up in arms about that – he’d had to put a notice in the waiting room of his surgery that any Man or elf that patted the doctor like a dog might end up invited to find themselves a GP of their own height – but today all that happened was his heart skipped and he blushed pink. Stupid handsome dwarves.

The road went on and on, and Bilbo’s brain started to switch off around eight in the morning, his head slumping against the window fully and eyelids suddenly too heavy to hold up. He dozed uncomfortably for a few hours, waking with a start every so often to find new countryside flitting past his window. Thorin had his window wound down – catching his thick hair and blowing it wildly – and he looked fresh, if not entirely relaxed, but Bilbo was cold and uncomfortable. Already little shakes had wracked his body and he was tempted to ask for the window to be shut, but Thorin could only think him a whinge if he said that and, anyway, his eyes were drifting shut again so perhaps he wouldn’t notice in his sleep.

His next awakening was when his forehead slid across the glass – the car was slowing to a stop – and he found he was no longer cold. A blanket had been thrown over him in his sleep; except it wasn’t a blanket, but Thorin’s leather coat. It was surprisingly heavy, the embroidered lining soft against Bilbo’s cheek and smelling of soap and a soft cologne. His initial instinct was to throw it off and gabble something while fumbling for the door latch, but this plan was rather ruined when someone opened the door for him and he half tumbled out, suspended by his seat belt momentarily.

“Sleeping on the march, doctor?” growled Dwalin, good natured amusement in his voice. He unbuckled Bilbo from the seat belt, turned him the right way up and set him down on tarmac. He also slung Thorin’s coat back over the hobbit’s shoulders, but Bilbo decided his next best plan was to pretend this wasn’t happening and ignored that. “I’d stretch your wee legs as much as you can hear. It’ll be another long drive up to the mountain passes, and I wager we won’t be stopping much with those orcs on our tail.”

“Orcs on our tail?” repeated Bilbo, who was still fuzzy with sleep. It took him some time to figure out just where he was – on a petrol station forecourt, surrounded by the dwarven convoy as they filled up the vehicles. Thorin was already finishing putting the last few litres of diesel into his Land Rover, and he gave Bilbo a dry smile before he headed off to pay.

“They are not far behind now, Dr Baggins,” the dwarf lord said in passing, “We shall have to be quick here.”

Bilbo knew exactly what he needed to do. After slinging Thorin’s coat back into his car and making a visit to the restroom, he was back with the convoy, munching on a less than tasty apple and with a big bottle of water. They had moved over to the car park, although there were few customers Bilbo had figured it paid not to make anyone else angry at them. Already he could hear very distant engine noises, and the dwarves were starting to shift nervously. They were already battered from the fight with the trolls, and many of them held themselves stiffly enough that Bilbo  was concerned, and there was no way they would hold up very long in a fight against many orcs.

An explosive pop made Dwalin lunge for his knives and Bilbo jump violently, but it was merely a battered old pickup, brown with rust and other things, bouncing madly as it entered the forecourt. The driver did not stop at the pumps, and Bilbo was already preparing to make a run for it, when Gandalf stepped forward and the car stopped at his feet.

Out clambered a little man, all bent and happily wizened. Bilbo found him quite familiar, but couldn’t place the face.

“Radagast!” Gandalf drew him into a hug, which Bilbo reckoned was a fairly unsanitary thing to do – the man looked as though he was dressed in moss and rags, and there was some white substance dried into his hair. His hat was in an even worse state than Bofur’s, which the hobbit had not thought possibly. “What brings you here? I doubt this is happy coincidence.”

“Oh no!” cried the man and Bilbo rolled his eyes as he recognised the voice. He had encountered Radagast before, at a conference where the social worker had given a rambling and lengthy talk on how hedgehogs were the best therapy animal and that more patients should eat a diet based on mushrooms. It had appeared then that he had been sampling the mushrooms mentioned, but now he was hysterical. “Thieves! Fire! Murder!”

“Calm yourself! Whatever is the matter?”

“The Greenwood!”

Bilbo, ever curious, slipped a few steps closer to the conversation, but the social workers’ voices grew dim as if they were standing a great distance away and soon he had to give up. Only when he stopped paying attention did their voices return to normal, so he caught clips of sentences that included worrying words like ‘diseased’, ‘spawn’, ‘horror’ and, most concerning of all, ‘Necromancer’. At that point Bilbo wished very fervently he hadn’t listened to any of it and crossed to stand with the dwarves again and pilfer a few crisps off Bofur.

In the distance, engines were growling more audibly and the dwarves all shifted nervously. Thorin nodded to his companions, and the majority of them produced guns from various holsters hidden neatly under coats and heavy shirts. Bilbo watched with mouth open and shuffled a little closer to Gandalf again, who was speaking rapidly with Radagast. He had seen guns on the hips of some of the more terrifying police in Rivendell, when they’d had to call for help with exceptionally rowdy patients, but never so close up.

“You are sure?” the grey haired wizard was hissing, and Radagast was fumbling with the detritus in the back of his pickup truck, digging under a pair of carved wooden rabbits and a lobster trap to find a package.

“Have a look for yourself!” Radagast flipped a layer of sackcloth back, and in his hand was a sword. The sight made Bilbo feel quite uneasy, and he looked back at the dwarves in time to see Kili hop up onto the roof of his uncle’s Land Rover and sight off into the distance with a squint.

“This is ill news,” said Gandalf, just as Kili shouted that there were thirteen cars coming down the road. “And that is worse yet for us!”

“We cannot outrun them,” said Thorin, hand shifting uncertainly on the grip of his weapon. “We may stand and fight.”

“Nonsense,” said Gandalf, suddenly all action again. He wrapped the sword up again and strode into the middle of the dwarves. “Quickly now, back to your cars and make haste! I will lead us  to safety.”

Radagast piped up, “I’ll provide a diversion. They may have Gundabad mechanics to makes their engines run smooth, but I still insist Rhosgobel moonshine makes a more powerful fuel!”

“Explains a lot,” muttered Dori, as he urged his brothers back into his car. Bilbo squirrelled himself beack into the Land Rover, the door barely shut before Thorin was peeling out of the car park. A car containing a family of elves was left missing a door mirror when Bofur rather misjudged the size of his minivan, but the getaway was clean and the flight was on.

 

* * *

 

Gandalf’s saloon held up with the best of them, leading them on a hairy ride down the carriageway, while Radagast’s mad little pickup bounced along with them as if it was constantly hopping on its springs. Whether that was a consequence of the moonshine that powered it, Bilbo was unsure, but he certainly hoped it didn’t explode while they had such big problems as angry orcs to deal with. He could see the front of their lead car in his door mirror by now, and they were catching up to the stragglers of their convoy fast.

Radagast kept pace with Thorin as he started to draw his Land Rover back down through the pack, dropping behind and crossing over to the shoulder of the road. There was a loud  whine and a ‘ping’ sound, the car juddering as Thorin’s hands twitched on the wheel, and Bilbo cast a horrified look in the mirror once again as the nutty social worker’s pickup bounced off the main road, found a neat little B-road and took off like a stabbed rat. A chunk of their pursuers followed, probably operating more on instinct that sense, and Bilbo laughed in delight.

There was another whine and his door mirror shattered.

“Shit!” Thorin jerked the wheel hard over and the engine growled as his foot pressed hard down on the accelerator. “Are you all right, Bilbo?”

“Yes, yes, it was only the mirror.” He stared at the wicked hole left in the plastic wing, glass shards whipping away in the wind, and swallowed. “Can’t we go any faster?”

The convoy sped up as fast as they could, no one keen to leave the slower vehicles behind, but the orcs were faster. Bilbo could no longer see backwards in his shattered mirror, but he could hear the snarl of high powered engines and the crack and whine of gunfire. His heart was in his throat, blood rushing in his ears, even as he sat there completely useless. Something made him lean forward and snatch up the scalpel from the dashboard, still sticky with troll blood, but unless they were run off the road he could do little with it.

There was a wail of a noise ahead, and the shrieks of gunfire abruptly ceased. Thorin cursed, evidently spotting something that Bilbo couldn’t see ahead of them, and heaved the wheel hard to the right to bring them into the centre of the road.

“Elves!” he spat, with the look of a dwarf that would face a million orcs down to avoid speaking to any number of elves.

With a whoop of sirens a group of police cars tore past and there was a great screeching of brakes and a few heavy metal crashes. Bilbo sorely missed his wing mirror and craned to Thorin’s side to see what he could spot.

There was a hole in the right side of the dashboard, and blood soaking Thorin’s right sleeve.

“You’ve been-“ He lunged into the back and grabbed his bag, hunting for some bandages and something he could pack the wound with to stop the bleeding.

“Don’t tell me our doctor is scared of a little blood?” Thorin shook his head. “I will cope. It is not serious.”

“You have been shot!” growled Bilbo, but there was little he could do while they still travelled at 80 miles an hour. “As soon as we stop, I will have a look at that.”

“You should check the others first,” said Thorin, but Bilbo was not going to have any sacrifices like that made on his watch.

“Only if they are worse off. Do not tell me how to treat my patients!” He blushed when Thorin gave him a scowl, but stood his ground nonetheless, because Dr Bilbo Baggins was a doctor down to his soul, just like he was a Took.

“You are still fierce,” said Thorin finally, and there was amusement in his voice. “Good to see.”

“Glad I meet up to the requirements,” sniffed Bilbo, casting a last anxious look at the wound – the sweater would be good for nothing but rags, which was a pity considering how nicely it matched the dwarf’s eyes – and then subsiding.  He caught a glimpse of white and silver out of the corner of his eye and glanced over to see a police car, keeping level with them. Inside were two elves, watching keenly – although Bilbo would have been happier if the driver had actually had his eyes on the road, elf or no – but they didn’t seem bothered by the little convoy they were now escorting.

It was Thorin who looked stormy instead, when several more of the vehicles crept past, occupants peering thoughtfully at the dwarves but making no motion to pull them over.

“Gandalf,” the dwarf lord growled, “Is taking us to Rivendell. He had always planned this, I am sure.”

“Rivendell is quite nice,” offered Bilbo, even though he was certain it was a bad idea. Sure enough Thorin cursed lowly in Khuzdul and hunched down over the steering wheel, like a strangely attractive gargoyle, and Bilbo could get nothing out of him after that.

 

* * *

 

The lack of talk in the car was acceptable though. Bilbo had always liked Rivendell, and even as a row of police cars hemmed you in and escorted you down its madly ordered streets, it retained it’s beauty.

He realised where they were being led minutes after they had passed the  city outskirts and reached the old centre of the elf settlement, passing the pedestrianized shopping district and coming to the other side, where the huge teaching hospital sprawled over acres of land.

This was where Bilbo had served his few years as a flustered junior doctor before being able to follow the lure of GP life, and he knew the grounds well. So far he could tell they were being herded into one of the multi-storey car parks, and so they were driven right to the top before the police escort stopped them and gestured for them to get out.

The police in Rivendell were mainly elvish, but there was an odd Man dotted amongst the fey faces that surrounded them. One elf stepped forward and spoke without introducing himself, which Bilbo thought rude.

“Lord Elrond will want to speak with you,” he said. “You should remain here for now. Try not to cause trouble.” He ran an assessing eye over the assembly, wincing slightly when he came across Gandalf in the line-up, but he said nothing else. No one else spoke either, and Bilbo stood in silence, watching the blood drip off the back of Thorin’s clenched fists until the fear and annoyance combined and spilled out of him.

At least this time it wasn’t sickness, but a seething anger. The police elf actually stepped back when Bilbo stepped forward, and it was rare a hobbit had such an effect on one of the Eldar.

“Some of these dwarves need to seek medical attention,” said Bilbo, scowling in annoyance when the police elf gave him a look of mild disbelief.

“I didn’t think dwarves bled,” he said, “I thought they were carved from stones by their mothers.”

“I think you’ve listened to too many children’s tales,” said Bilbo, who was itching to get the sopping wound on Thorin’s arm cleaned and bound. “I know my way to the A&E, so I will take them.”

“You must wait for Lord Elrond!” said the elf, but Bilbo was too quick and nimble to be caught by the restraining hands that reached for him.

“I am a doctor!” said Bilbo, drawing himself up to his full height – he came up to about the policeman’s waist he realised – and fiddling in his pocket for his identification card. “And I know that these people need treatment, and I will not stand for you, um, standing in my way!”

Gandalf intervened then, which was lucky as Bilbo was swiftly running out of steam and courage. “Let us through, dear elf, and I promise to take this company to Dr Elrond. I am their social worker, you see.”

“I’ve seen you do better jobs, Mithrandir,” said the elf, but he stepped back and waved his colleagues away. “I’ll be taking the guns though, and impounding your vehicles, and there shan’t be any complaints about that!”

Bilbo certainly had none – he disliked the things, horrible black devices, and much preferred the dwarves to have only their knives on them – and the weapons were handed over grudgingly, for elves disapprove of guns even as they used them to help detain orcs and other monsters that caused trouble. It was then Gandalf who led the sorry little troupe down the stairs, Bombur starting to complain halfway down one flight, and into the hospital proper.

After the horrors of the trolls and the terror of the chase, the main concourse of Rivendell Hospital was a sanctuary of peace. Bilbo padded beside Gandalf and wondered how he could have ever found this place chaotic.

“We shall go to the emergency department first,” declared the social worker, “And then I trust Dr Elrond will find us, for he has an element of control over every place in this hospital, let alone the city.”

Thorin grumbled, and seemed keen to suggest they not stay long, but Bilbo granted him a Look that had stopped a few badly behaved patients in the past and the dwarf lord fell silent. Meanwhile Dwalin and Gloin were conversing about the likelihood of them getting something to eat that wasn’t just ‘hospital food’, and Ori was staring at the passers-by in amazement. For Rivendell, an elf city at its heart, was still one of the great cities of Middle Earth and there were peoples of all kinds here.

Bilbo could see many elves – the solemn Noldor in doctor’s white coats, the golden Sindar mainly dressed in surgeons’ scrubs and a few playful wood-elves who always seemed to inhabit the A&E - , and Men – ranging from dark men and ladies of the south to the pale and bearded Rohirrim – and even a few hobbits – medical students and foundation year doctors like he had been all those years ago. The sight of a little hobbit lass skipping to keep up with a group of long legged elf and Man students made the company’s burglar feel quite old indeed. He consoled himself with the idea that he still couldn’t wear a bow tie without looking a very awkward chap indeed – as soon as a person could wear such a thing with no qualms, he was officially of an older generation of doctors in Bilbo’s book, and would be expected to regale students of how different things were in his day.

They breached the A&E department and persuaded the dwarves to crowd in one end of the waiting room, looking magnificently out of place amid the rows of slightly battered elves, Men and the odd orc freshly missing an ear or with bones sticking out where they should not. Gandalf tried the receptionist, but Bilbo decided to be resourceful and find out who remembered him in the department.

Within a minute he had located a familiar face – a senior registrar with an expression of almost permanent concern, which had fooled many a patient and colleague into thinking he was a soft touch.

“Bilbo Baggins!” Dr Lindir swept down towards him, momentarily abandoning his post of trying to pluck something from a small boy’s nose to a passing nurse, who glared at him in return. “What are you doing here?”

“Some friends of mine need a little patching up, doctor,” said Bilbo. “I couldn’t borrow a cubicle and some sutures?”

Lindir made a face, and then made an even more extravagant grimace when he spotted the dwarves all milling about the waiting room.

“We shall see when Dr Elrond arrives,” he said, adjusting his white coat. “I am sure he is on his way right now, if you have only just gotten here.” He waved a hand at the dwarves. “Your friends can take a seat if they want.”

“Elves,” said Bilbo , as if that would explain anything to anybody who wasn’t a dwarf. “Oh, sorry! It rubs off after a while.”

“As do the bathing habits, I see.” Lindir wrinkled his nose and plucked at Bilbo’s shirt, which was still harbouring a great deal of leaf litter from his encounter with the trolls. “Ah, here is my consultant now!”

Dr Elrond had swept in with a phalanx of medical students trailing behind him. These were always the best of the best, often tall glowing elves or strong browed Dunedain Men. Today, there was that little hobbit lass Bilbo had spotted earlier amid the number, and Dr Baggins was pleased to see the world had changed a little more from when he had left the Shire the first time.

“Mithrandir!” the consultant called, and he and Gandalf shared a brief embrace. “I hear you led orcs into my city.”

“Not on purpose,” said the wizard, a spark in his eye indicating that wasn’t entirely true. “I have a new company to lead. But you must excuse us, we need medical care and food.”

Elrond beckoned his medical students forward, and they descended on the dwarves like a pack of locusts, all smiles and trained politeness. Dwalin – who had a black eye and a nose that wasn’t entirely pointing in the right direction anymore after the fight with the trolls – ended up with the hobbit girl in charge of his care and she had more words out of him in five minutes than Bilbo had managed in knowing him for three days.

Thorin stomped forward, refusing to acknowledge the students, and gave a stiff bow of his head. “Thank you for the care. We will, of course, not be staying long.”

“Well, let us not be hasty, Master Thorin,” said Gandalf. “Dr Elrond has many contacts across Middle Earth. He may be able to help us.”

“I would have you tell me the nature of this journey,” said Elrond, his eyes lighting on Bilbo for the first time. “I cannot think of a time I have seen such a company of dwarves, a social worker and a doctor hobbit from the Shire come through the boundaries of my city.”

“I am not-“ started Thorin, starting to look exceptionally surly again.

“Do not be foolish, Master Thorin.” Gandalf’s voice was quiet but it held the threat of the roar it could become. Thorin narrowed his eyes, but he quietened with another smouldering glower. “We should talk.”

“I will take you to my office,” said Dr Elrond, already turning away.

“Balin will come too,” said Thorin, his tone brooking no argument. Gandalf sighed and made an exasperated frown, but Elrond showed no sign of caring.

“And me!” said Bilbo, which garnered a raised eyebrow each from Thorin, Balin, Gandalf and Dr Elrond. “Mister Thorin has an arm wound, and I had promised to treat it myself!”

“As you wish, Dr Baggins,” said Elrond, his eyebrow settling down again. “Come along. I must welcome you to the Last Homely House.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week - Dr Elrond talks at people and Thorin hates elves. Plus - a bus journey!


	7. Chapter 7

Elrond’s office was somewhere in the upper reaches of the hospital, with glass walls so he could stare down at the concourse and inspire terror into passers-by without them even knowing, just by raising his eyebrows at them.

The elves had taken on modern architecture and design and had come out the other side happy, with plenty of glass and calm greens and blues and silvers and elegant furniture – Bilbo felt it was all very handsome, but it lacked the warm, cosy feel that a hobbit liked in his surroundings. The only concessions to cosiness here were Dr Elrond’s comfortable looking seat, which was really more a throne behind a desk, and a multitude of pictures of various dark haired children and adults, all looking very lovely.

Balin and Gandalf sank into proffered chairs gratefully, while Thorin stood and glowered until Bilbo jabbed him in the ribs with the corner of the first aid box he had been offered and told him to sit down or else. What that ‘else’ was Bilbo was not entirely sure: surely Dr Elrond would frown upon a doctor trained in his own hospital administering a beat down on an injured man, with the additional problem that Bilbo was not in any way, shape or form capable of administering said beat down to Thorin Oakenshield without getting thoroughly thrashed himself.

“Take your jumper and shirt off too,” he added, scowling when Thorin briefly looked askance at him. “If you’d gotten treated first, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Sit down please, shirt off.”

Thorin growled but did as he was told, choosing a chair where Bilbo had good access to his right arm, and then fixing his glower on Elrond instead of the hobbit doctor for once. Bilbo just sigh quietly, rolled up his sleeves and got to work - the edges of the wound were ragged with dried blood and it was deep enough to need a few stitches. Gandalf did all the explaining initially, which Bilbo thought was a very good idea on the whole as both the dwarves were looking varying degrees of mutinous.

“A quest to Erebor?” Dr Elrond did not sound enthused. “Some would not deem this wise…”

Thorin snorted, but said nothing.

“We have been living in peace for many a year. We were sorry we could never stop your Mountain from being taken from you, but Smaug did it legally and there was no way we could have turned him out.”

“He appeared to do it legally!” said Balin, leaning forward a bit, “But we have no doubt there is proof in his lair to say that this was not so. We just need to get it.”

“Walking into a dragon’s den?” Elrond made a similar face to the one Bilbo was certain he was wearing as well; thinking of the consequences of getting incinerated, or the devastating blood loss due to a dragon tooth through a kidney or something similar. The hobbit tried to put all thought of _incineration_ out of his head again and swabbed Thorin’s wound with antiseptic. The dwarf’s bicep twitched, but his face didn’t flicker. “Now that is definitely unwise.”

“We are not intending a… full frontal assault,” said Thorin but that was all he would say because Bilbo was now spritzing his arm with local anaesthetic and lining up a needle.

Elrond leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers briefly. “You are planning to use cunning instead?”

“A dwarf is a great fan of  a contract, Dr Elrond,” said Balin. “I have heard elves are similar.”

“You are planning to use _legal_ action.  And I appreciate a certain amount of order in life.” Elrond tapped his lip as his gaze fell on Bilbo and said, “It would take great skill and strength to remove anything from the dragon’s lair, although if you were to find proof that Smaug had taken control of the Lonely Mountain then you would have to find those authorities around to would accept it.”

“Esgaroth is close,” said Thorin, barely twitching at all as Bilbo drew the last stitch tight. “As is… Mirkwood.”

Dr Elrond moved fast to hide a smirk and said. “The wood is dark these days. You should be cautious if you enter it.” He sighed and looked over his shoulder at the glass wall behind him, where he could see the comings and goings of the people in his city who needed him the most. “Of course, the Council still have to decide. Gandalf, you shall be attending our meeting tonight.”

The Council? Now there was a thing! Everyone knew of the White Council, even sleepy little Shire hobbit, but it was all rumours and hearsay and conspiracy theories. They said that the White Council ran everything secretly, that they were in charge of the police and the media and the great cities. Bilbo had always wondered who ‘they’ were and how exactly they professed to know this great secret, and dismissed the whole thing as madness. But here was Dr Elrond – a doctor Bilbo very much looked up to, not that he had much choice really – apparently confirming that the Council existed.

“I shall attend,” said Gandalf, bowing his head solemnly. “I trust Saruman will be there?”

“As ever the head of your order is at the forefront of everything.” Elrond cast an eye down to a pile of paperwork on his desk, and if Bilbo tilted his head just enough the right way he could see they were all forms sent from the social work department, and therefore had to be filled in in triplicate and preferably copied over into a pdf file as well. “Dr Galadriel shall also be there.”

Gandalf lit up briefly. “My favourite consultant psychiatrist. I have missed her so.”

“Master Oakenshield, your dwarves are welcome to use the seminar rooms in the teaching hospital to regroup and rest for a while. I would invite you to stay until the White Council has made its decision on your quest.” The elf doctor brushed both Thorin and Balin’s complaints away with a solemn expression. “I am afraid this is the way of it. Your belongings in your vehicles will be returned to you, but we will retain the keys just in case.”

“Of course,” spat Thorin, snatching his shirt up as Bilbo offered it to him. The dwarf lord looked askance to Gandalf, but the social worker just shrugged and pursed his lips together. “I see we have no choice. I must return to my company now.”

The two dwarves stomped out, looking no more pleased with their situation than when they had entered. Bilbo wasn’t sure whether he should follow them or not, but then glanced back and saw Dr Elrond watching him in silence, and decided that yes, he should definitely follow. He was sure that the elf lord would frown upon doctors trained in his own hospital becoming burglars.

Not that Bilbo had ever stolen a thing! Maybe an apple from a tree, or some mushrooms – perhaps he had stolen many a bushel of mushrooms in his time, but that was practically expected of a young hobbit and, anyway, they were nearly public property just growing about the ground like that…

He stopped, shaking his head to rid himself of the thoughts of mushrooms – goodness, he would love a nice mushroom omelette right now actually, it had been ages since the stop at the petrol station – and found himself in a corridor with no sign of either Thorin or Balin, or any sign of which way to go.

“What sort of burglar would I be if I got lost in  a place I used to work?” he demanded of himself and headed for the nearest set of stairs to travel downwards. Within a flight or so, he had reached ward blocks, and here was the atmosphere he remembered – nurses trotting back and forth, the odd junior doctor hurtling off on some errand with their consultants pottering along behind, and the brief wheelchair or trolley gliding through the people. Bilbo stood in a quiet corner and watched this all go by.

A long time ago, he would have been among them, perpetually anxious but determined to do what was right. But he didn’t fit here anymore, because he had left; gone to the Shire to live a quiet life and only have to move fast when his alarm failed to go off and he had an early morning clinic.

Sighing, he stepped into the stream of people and headed for the A&E department, coming to the doors just as the dwarves started to pour through them. Amid them, looking harried and aggravated, was Dr Lindir. His eyes lit on the hobbit and he waded through the grumbling company to Bilbo’s side.

“Dr Baggins,” he said in the sickly sweet tone of an elf that really didn’t want to be near any dwarves at all. “You wouldn’t lead your companions to Seminar Room A? Good!” He barely waited for Bilbo to open his mouth before turning back and disappearing into his department again, and the hobbit scowled after him. Some doctors!

Even if it had been a long time, Bilbo still knew his way and led the company of dwarves back to the concourse, down a long corridor to the medical school and then took an abrupt left into the seminar rooms. Within the one Lindir had mentioned they found their bags and other equipment – offloaded from their cars without their permission as several of them grumbled – and a buffet table groaning with food. Since this was Rivendell, most of it was salad, but the dwarves were too hungry to complain over much and sat down to eating.

Bilbo picked up a plate, piled it high and sat down in a corner. He thought he should maybe sit with the group more and enjoy their high spirits, because with food on their forks they became an incredibly gregarious folk, quite similar to hobbits. To show willing he shuffled closer, but then the gloomy shadow that was Thorin Oakenshield sat down in a chair beside him and Bilbo thought that sitting very still and pretending this wasn’t happening was the best option.

“How’s your arm feeling?” he mumbled, nearly spilling tomatoes everywhere when his plate tipped forward.

“Stings,” said Thorin concisely. “But it’ll do. Thank you.”

Bilbo shrugged modestly. “Is everyone else all right?”

Thorin cast his gaze about the room, pausing for a moment on each of the dwarves who had been injured. Fili and Kili both had new bandages, as had Dwalin. No one was actively bleeding on the floor, so Bilbo was going to suppose the med students had done a good enough job and relaxed a bit more.

They ate in companionable silence, as the other dwarves laughed and joked and the younger ones roughhoused. Finally Bofur and Bifur roused themselves from their food and went to pick through their luggage. To the dwarves’ joy they found that all their weapons had been returned to them, including the guns. Someone had left a note on top of the pile in a elvish hand, begging them not to bring the things out while they remained in Rivendell. Well, ‘begging’ was how the dwarves understood it; Bilbo rather thought the elves were more likely to be ‘ordering’ instead.

“We can’t stay here for ever,” said Gloin, refastening one of his smaller axes under his waistcoat and smoothing the line of his outfit down so the lump barely showed. “I don’t think I could take another elvish meal.”

“Get packed then,” said Thorin, standing up. “Divide the load as best you can. We’ll move on soon enough.” He touched his arm gently, the spot Bilbo knew was swollen and sore under a layer of bandage,  and then looked down at the hobbit. “You looked happy here,” he said, in a faintly accusing fashion, just low enough that the other dwarves wouldn’t hear. Wrinkling his nose, Bilbo tried to make himself useful by collecting his bag and inserting some of the things the dwarves had decided need to be carried if they couldn’t get their vehicles back yet. Pots and pans and food and bedrolls and knives and ammunition – which Bilbo refused to carry because even the containers of bullets made the hair rise on the tops of his feet – all were shoved in, and when Bilbo tried to stand with the bag on his back he very nearly toppled over. Only Thorin’s hand on his shoulder stopped him, and the big paw stayed there for maybe a moment too long. “You have been to Rivendell before?”

“I did my training here. And it’s a nice place..” Bilbo looked about the room and sighed deeply. He had not had enough time to think about how much he truly missed Hobbiton and Bag End and his previously peaceful existence, but here, somewhere familiar and calm, his mind was able to drift. He still missed his armchair in front of the fire and his dressing gown and his slippers and being able to eat whatever food he wanted whenever he wanted. Even if he was partly a Took, he was still a Baggins in many aspects indeed and life on the road had turned out to be a bit too exciting for him.

When he came back to himself, shaking his head to clear the thought of his little bench out in the front garden out of his mind, Thorin was watching him carefully. For once he wasn’t scowling about elves, or watching his idiotic nephews with a careful eye, but just watching Bilbo. Like he was waiting for the hobbit to do something or say something, and all Bilbo could think of was, “Are we  staying here long?”

Thorin looked almost disappointed for a second, but he shrugged and moved away to put his coat back on. Bilbo hadn’t realised how close he had been standing until he left. “Until whatever time the next bus leaves.”

 

* * *

 

Despite Bilbo’s worry and complaints, the dwarves set out within an hour. Skipping along behind them, and for once wishing he were just slightly longer-legged, came Dr Baggins. By the time they reached the main concourse Bilbo was regretting agreeing to carry a share of the load, and by the time they reached the bus stop….

He sat down heavily  on the bench – nicely carved out of wood with leaves and flowers all over it – and tried to not sulk too obviously. It was unbecoming for a respectable doctor to sulk, although it was also unbecoming for him to have to get the bus!

“I wouldn’t worry laddie,” said Bofur, plonking himself down beside the hobbit and throwing a companionable arm across his shoulders. Bilbo didn’t notice when Thorin threw an icy look the other dwarf’s way, but he did notice the hurried fashion in which Bofur then removed his arm and this did not improve his mood any. “Gandalf’s a smart one. He’ll know where we’ve gone and catch up with us in a jiffy!"

“Probably because we’ll be moving at barely any pace at all,” grumbled Bilbo.

“You’ll keep up, Dr Baggins,” growled Thorin, “Or we will not wait for you.” He was in a mood again, and Bilbo was hard pressed to keep up with the changes. Perhaps he should have lobbied harder to stay behind and then begged admittance to the White Council, where Lady Galadriel, chief consultant of the psychiatrist hospital of Lothlorien, would be holding court. She would know what on Middle Earth was happening in Thorin Oakenshield’s very handsome head, but right now Bilbo had no clue.

They got on the bus – “Half price tickets for half sized people,” laughed the Man behind the wheel, who swiftly became very grateful for the safety glass between himself and his customers – and skulked down the back. Bilbo found himself sandwiched between the window and Bombur, which was less than comfortable but included the unexpected perk of being offered a snack every few minutes.

Meanwhile the bus purred on, winding along scenic streets and up and down steep cliff roads, splashing through puddles where the waterfalls that were endemic to Rivendell had gone off course. It was a nice trip, with a lovely view that Bilbo thought more of the dwarves should be enjoying. At least Ori was paying attention, but Fili and Kili were arm wrestling and many of the older dwarves were staring straight ahead as if there were no windows at all. Bombur was too busy eating.

Elves and men and even a couple hobbits got on and off at various stops, and then they were the last people left on the bus as they merged onto a motorway and left Rivendell completely. Bilbo was tempted to look back and try to snatch one more look, but he was also accursedly aware that Thorin was sitting right behind him and the look would either be the source of more disappointment or misconstrued.

Rain began to patter on the roof. More puddles splashed the sides of the bus, these not causes by errant waterfalls but by grim storm clouds forming up ahead. Worries that had been soothed away by the calmness of Rivendell began to resurface in Bilbo’s mind, but he was tired and his belly was full from the meal the elves had provided and Bombur was such a comfortable cushion.

He woke when Bombur prodded him in the ribs and told him it was the end of the line. Balin and Dwalin were trying both persuasion and coercion to get the bus driver to continue on, but the Man refused stoutly even in the face of Dwalin’s axes.

“More than my job’s worth, guys,” he said, adjusting his cap and crossing his arms again. “I take yous to the cable car and then I take myself back. Ain’t my fault if the cables ain’t working tonight.” He added, “And a return journey’ll be extra now, ‘cause you’ve threatened me with that there axe, sir.”

In the end, the bus driver wouldn’t be moved, and Thorin persuaded Dwalin that murder was not a viable option just yet. So the company stood in pouring rain and whipping wind under the meagre shelter of the bus station and half of them watched miserably as the bus pulled away and the other half glowered at the flashing orange sign that told them the cable car over the Misty Mountains was closed due to inclement weather conditions.

“We’ll freeze if we stay out here!” bellowed Dwalin over the roar of the wind.

“More like drown!” replied Bofur, tying the straps of his hat underneath his chin to keep it on the wind. “Water’s already over the good doctor’s toes!”

Balin spoke next. “There’s a road tunnel through the mountains as well. Up that hill yonder. At the least we would stay dry sheltering in the mouth.”

“I’ll not waste more time,” snapped Thorin. “We’ll walk the tunnel through the mountain and aim for the other side by daybreak tomorrow. Lead the way, Balin; you know these parts.”

It was a long trek, especially with the heavy packs and the fierce wind, which rolled down off the mountains and almost forced them backwards at its peaks. Bilbo sheltered in the lee of Dwalin and kept his eyes cast to the ground so he wouldn’t trip and roll backwards down the steep foothill they had been climbing. When the path flattened out and the great gawping maw of the tunnel appeared not too far ahead, many of the company couldn’t supress their groans of delight and no amount of rain or wind would move them on until they had gotten their breath back.

“Kili will go first,” said Thorin, when everyone had straightened and was willing to move again, and the line of the company trekked glumly into the mouth of the tunnel.

 

* * *

 

Never, _never,_ had anyone done anything so dangerous as this, Bilbo thought as Kili’s voice up ahead roared “car!” again and they all hopped desperately onto the thin pathway on the other side of the guardrail. It was just too thin to walk with their heavy packs and littered with debris to trip up an incautious foot, but Bilbo would have taken the challenge if it meant he didn’t have to keep sodding jumping things…

“Car!”

He jumped again, the vehicle whooshed past, and then he emerged with the others, clambering back over the rail that the rest of them hopped across. Only Bombur and the stiff with age Oin were having anywhere as near as much difficultly as him, and they both had their brothers by their sides to haul them every which way as was needed. Poor Bilbo was stuck on his own, panting as he tried to keep pace with Ori in front of him and straining his ears for the next shout.

But he was so busy being miserable, or maybe his breathing had grown too loud, he didn’t hear the next shout and suddenly he was all alone in the middle of a road and headlights were rapidly bearing down on him. A woollen glove covered hand snatched his own, but Bilbo had frozen entirely with terror and Ori could not break him from it. It was only Thorin, leaping over the barrier and shoving them both hard into the other lane that managed to spare Dr Bilbo Baggins from becoming the _late_ Dr Bilbo Baggins.

“Bloody hell,” whistled Dwalin after the reverberations from the passing car had died away. “Thought we’d lost our burglar then!”

“He’s been lost since he left home,” growled Thorin, hauling himself up off Bilbo and dragging the hobbit up by the collar. Not since he’d been a sad little medical student, keen and in permanent terror of those who were already doctors, had Bilbo felt so utterly pathetic. He crossed the road and slotted himself into the group near Bofur, who at least gave him a sympathetic look, and pointedly didn’t look at Thorin or even thank him for saving his life.

Kili came galloping back, face flushed and dirty in the low lights of the tunnel. “There’s an emergency gathering area just up here. We could rest there for a while.”

“We can’t continue in this muck without a break,” said Bofur, his sentiments echoed by a low Khuzdul drawl from Bifur. “My mouth feels like I’ve been sucking on an exhaust pipe for the past hour.”

Thorin did not look pleased but he told Kili to lead the way regardless, and soon the company were huddled in a recess in the wall – small and grimy, with a well-locked maintenance door at the rear - , everyone able to lie down without booting anyone else too severely in the spine. Bofur ended up on watch duty – Bilbo uncharitably suspected because Thorin was being a bastard and blamed the hatted dwarf for encouraging the others to stop – and the rest of them seemed to fall asleep in minutes.

It must have been late at night, of there were few cars passing now. It was still enough to prevent Bilbo from sleeping, although he lay long on his blankets and pretended. All the while he thought and thought and thought about the situation he had gotten himself into: crowded into a tiny space, surrounded by dwarves he barely knew and of whom very few seemed to appreciate him. He was tired and cold and still damp from the uphill climb in the stormy weather, his mouth tasted as though he had indeed been sucking on an exhaust pipe and, ever since Rivendell, the leader of their company was showing his true colours as a twat.

To think, Bilbo snorted, that he had thought so much of Thorin Oakenshield! The dwarf was little better than a sulking child, and now the hobbit thought he would be a victim to his whims no longer. He would go home, clearly he wasn’t wanted here and set himself up in Bag End with a roaring fire and a cup of tea so large he could drown himself in it. Thorin could find himself a new burglar, and a new doctor, and maybe he would learn some appreciation in the process.

Quietly, he divested his bag of the things he had agreed to carry from the dwarves’ luggage, pulled his much lightened bag over his shoulder and crept away. Only Bofur was awake to see him go, and he seemed more confused than distressed.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home,” said Bilbo, all of his anger leaving him in a great rush. “I don’t belong here and we all know it. I thought I’d just relieve some of the crippling disappointment now and go home.”

“But you’re one of the Company,” Bofur said, and Bilbo could hear the capital letter sliding into place. This journey was so much of what many of these dwarves had in the end, but Bilbo couldn’t help them. He wanted to, he did, but he was too much a Baggins and not enough a Took for this adventuring business. He should have known that at the start.

“Bofur, I-“ His eyes fell on the snoring dwarves, wandered over until he met a piercing pair of blue eyes staring back at him, and, before there was time to react, the maintenance door at the back of the recess opened and out poured a horde of goblins.

Oh _dear_ …

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exposition and goblins... What's not to love. 
> 
> Next time! Who else could it be? Darling Gollum makes his appearance!


	8. Chapter 8

As it turned out Bilbo liked goblins less than he liked orcs. Although they were essentially the same species, goblins had retreated deep underground and had become pale and slimy and even smellier than  a traditional above ground orc, if that was at all possible. They had thin groping fingers with incredible strength in their wiry arms, and not even the strongest of the dwarves could resist being hauled up and through the maintenance door.

Bilbo had briefly considered trying to bolt, but he found himself staying resolutely put until the goblins surrounded him too and heaved him away. He kept a hand close to the pocket where his scalpel was tucked away, just in case he needed to lash out and show them what a hobbit in a tight spot could do, but they seemed content to shepherd him along and to poke and prod elsewhere.

The maintenance door led to a great warren of metal stairs and walkways, wrapped around great humming pieces of machinery that jutted out of the depths of the mountain like steel grey icebergs. The depths were so deep that Bilbo could not see the bottom, and when he looked up the cavern extended upwards so high he could not see that either. A shudder ran through him and he hurried a bit more to catch up with the group of dwarves being thrown about in front of him, elbowing a few pesky goblins out of the way.

He had almost reached the company – he would just have to push a layer of goblins out of the way and then he’d be able to grab the back of Nori’s belt and he’d be relatively safe – when one of them let out a magnificent roar and goblins started to fly this way and that. Bilbo’s guards nearly trampled him as they rushed to help their kin contain the prisoners, and the poor little hobbit was entirely forgotten about.

A swift crouch had prevented Bilbo from being bowled flat on his face, or worse, pushed over the edge of the walkway into the abyss below, and he stayed tucked low for a moment until he was sure the mob that entirely passed. When he raised his head he could see the company being forcibly led down another set of stairs, with no one apparently missing him at all, so he remained very quiet and tried to _think_.

Bilbo had never been the best at thinking on the spot, but that brief period in his training when he’d had to work in the hospital had left him with the ability to certainly give it a go. Right now his main concern was getting himself and the dwarves out of the goblins clutches alive – he could certainly run after them and attack, but he was a little hobbit, quite out of shape and armed with a mere scalpel. That would do no good at all. His best option was to find a way out, find someone preferably much taller and with some sort of very nasty weapon and get them to come sort this mess out. And he’d have to do it _quickly_.

Removing his scalpel from his pocket and gripping it tightly, he pattered back the way they’d come in, panicking when he heard nasal little goblin voices approaching from behind and lunging for the first door that looked familiar. Unfortunately this door led abruptly to a very steep and long flight of stairs that poor Dr Baggins immediately fell right down, thudding and cursing and crashing the whole way to the bottom, where he lay in a daze for a few minutes.

Above him, the goblins sounded distant but excited about something. Bilbo’s slightly fuzzy brain – a few careful touches over his scalp served to mostly reassure him he hadn’t entirely shattered his skull, although he wasn’t so sure about the state of his brain with in it – worried immediately that they had heard his descent and urged him up and onto his feet again. It hurt to walk, his ankle twinging pointedly every time he took a step, but he hurried as best he could. There were stories about what the colonies of goblins ate, and why Bilbo didn’t like to listen to rumours like that, there was nevertheless something extremely concerning about the idea that he, an unfortunate traveller, might find himself in the stew pot for that night’s dinner. So he hurried and hurried, hobbling along walkways and down stairs in the hope he might find an exit at the base of the mountain. The light faded from the fluorescent lamps that lit the upper reaches of the cave, and the air grew damp and dank, the metal floors treacherously slippy even under a grippy hobbit foot.

Within time the goblin voices died away, and Bilbo was able to pause and try to regain his bearings, but the dark and the winding walkways had confused his sense of direction entirely and he knew he had no hope of finding his way back up again. He continued onwards and downwards, until after a last, long and slimy set of stairs, his feet met bare rock and there was no further downwards he could go.

 

* * *

 

What Dr Baggins had inadvertently found was a great lake under the Misty Mountains, where the nearby elf cities drew much of their drinking water. The lake was huge – Bilbo could not even see the other side – and crystal clear and cold. He dabbled a cautious toe in the lapping wavelets, disturbing tiny white fish and sediment from the bottom.

Pipes wider than an elf was tall were plunged into the water along the distant shoreline, rearing out to stretch up and up and up into the cavern above, no doubt to where Bilbo had initially entered the mountain. He thought he might be able to find another staircase, or some signs leading to a new exit if he followed the pipes, so he trudged along the rocky shore in hope but found nothing. The pipes were too tall and slick with damp to climb over, and there was no helpful exit sign or even a door. Bilbo turned on his heel and stomped back, passing the staircase that had brought him down and carrying on around the other side of the lake until he came to a sheer rock face that he had no hope of climbing. There were some small paths in the rock face that a hobbit could probably pass through if he sucked in his stomach, but Bilbo’s adventurous spirit was at an all-time low.

Instead he sat down heavily on a rock and leant his head into his hands. The last time he had felt so desperate had been at the bedside of his first critically ill patient, the one who had never gotten better and had simply faded away. That had been a low point for the doctor hobbit, and now he was feeling almost as bad. There was no hope for him, no point even in trying to find a way out because he was always going to be so fantastically useless…

The dwarves should have definitely picked someone else to come with them. Perhaps then they would still be free, or at least have a chance of getting away from the goblins… Oh yes, that thought certainly made everything much, much worse.

He sat, miserable, in his glum little world for a while, the cold of the cavern eating through his still damp clothes and down into the very heart of him. Normally his hobbit-y good nature would have struck back by now, but he was too cold, too scared and too far from home. He wanted company, any company at all, and thought about climbing the stairs again and wandering around until he ran into some goblins. They could do what they wanted with him at that point.

A glint of light caught his eye as he turned his head to look to where the stairs led back up into the lofty heights. It took a few seconds to see what he was looking for in the gloom, but when he saw it it was clear as day – a simple gold ring, sitting in a little dip in a rock, like someone had placed it there for safekeeping. But there was no one else down here surely?

Bilbo stared at it for a long time, and then found the urge to get up and take it irresistible. The hobbit who had never taken anything more than apples and mushrooms found himself on his feet and snatching up the ring without another thought. He tucked it in the pocket of his waistcoat and sat back down on his rock with a heavy thud.

What had he been thinking beforehand? He couldn’t even recall now, the thoughts all blurred out with the light weight of the ring in his pocket. He had certainly been moping, considering the situation he was in, but there was no point in that any longer! Time to get out of here.

Something splish-splashed in the lake. It was something much bigger than the little fish that Bilbo had seen earlier, but then again he was a doctor and not a marine biologist. Perhaps blind cave fish grew to enormous sizes. Hopefully none of them were amphibious yet.

“Blesses and splashes, Precious!” said a cheerful little voice, with a sort of hungry, malicious glee that Bilbo really wished he hadn’t been able to hear. He turned just as a… something jumped off a rock and landed directly in front of him. It was near naked, with a filthy loincloth bound around all essentials. It had massive eyes in a skeletal face, and thin grabby fingers that looked as though they were capable of breaking a neck if needs be. It licked grey lips with a sickly looking tongue and said, “That’s a meaty mouthful.”

Bilbo whipped the scalpel out and held it directly in front of him. The creature blinked and then hissed to itself, slinking back a few steps.

“ _Gollum_ , _gollum_ ,” it coughed, and spat. “What is it with its little kniveses, then?”

“My name is Bilbo Baggins,” said Bilbo, “And I’m a doctor from the Shire.”

“A doctor, eh?” said the thing, which Bilbo had decided to call Gollum, after the horrible hacking noises it had just made. “We likes doctorses. Bitten a few of them, always very tasty.” He licked his lips again and Bilbo shuddered.

“Keep your distance!” said Bilbo, waving his scalpel warningly. Gollum hissed, but stayed crouched back. “Just show me the way to get out and I’ll be gone! I don’t want any trouble!”

“Is it lost?” purred Gollum, and then a brief change flickered over its face. “Ooh, ooh! We knows! We knows a way out!” His face flickered back. “Shut up!”

A brief argument roared between the creature and itself, and Bilbo just stood there and wished he’d paid more attention in his psychiatry blocks. Finally his frayed temper snapped and he said, “Enough of your games! Tell me how to get out!”

And somehow this descended into a game of riddles. Bilbo was a quick one at riddles when not in a cave and trapped by a horrible murder-y creature, but he coped well enough right until his last turn.

He couldn’t think of a question. He couldn’t think of a question! He was going to be eaten alive by a cave dwelling freak, and there was no question he could think of. His fingers drifted to his pocket again, drawn by some strange urge, and he asked, more to himself that anyone else, “What have I got in my pocket?”

“That’s not fair. It’s not fair! It’s against the rules!” Gollum threw a brief hissy fit, but Bilbo was well used to dealing with patients acting out when they didn’t get their way and stood his ground.

“No, no, no, no. You said ‘Ask me a question.’ Well, that is my question. What have I got in my pocket?”

Gollum groaned and grumbled and begged for three guesses. Bilbo felt magnanimous enough to agree with that.

“Handses!” was the first guess.

Bilbo held up his hands and said, “Wrong!”

The creature muttered and cursed and guessed a second time, “Knife!”

“Wrong again. Last guess!”

“String,” said one half of Gollum, and the second half added, “Or nothing.”

“Two guesses at once; wrong both times. So come then, I won the game, you promised to show me the way out,” said Bilbo triumphantly, but Gollum was too busy sobbing on the floor to answer. “Come on!”

“We’ll show you lost,” snarled Gollum, uncurling from the floor, suddenly the horrible wicked personality again. “We’ll show you _lost_!”

One of his spidery hands groped over the rock, fingers stroking over the dip where the ring had been sitting and his face fell like a ton of bricks. Bilbo leapt back as the creature started to curse and grope around the rocks, splashing into the water and throwing pebbles and handfuls of sediment everywhere. He fished the ring out of his pocket and hid it behind his back, just in case, and tried to sidestep away.

Gollum was now sitting frozen and hunched over on the edge of the lake, breathing in a thick, hissing fashion. When he spoke, it was a truly poisonous little voice and Bilbo shuddered at the sound. “What has it got in its nasty little pocketses?”

The creature screamed and Bilbo ran. He darted for the nearest of the pathways in the rock and tore along it at a frankly reckless speed, tripping and stumbling often in the dark, but never allowing himself to stop. Gollum’s flipper flat feet were galloping behind him, his nasty mouth spitting out curses and threats of a top quality.

He came to a crossroads and chose a path at random, coming quickly to a thin crack in the rock that was apparently the only way through. There was no time to turn back, for Gollum’s thick breathing was now purring closer and Bilbo kept catching glances of big iridescent eyes staring his way, so in Bilbo squeezed.

Almost a week of traveling had loosened his clothes on his frame slightly, but it was no immediate cure for years of sedentary work and pub lunches. He sucked in his gut and wiggled this way and that, but it was more than a tight squeeze. If was when Gollum leapt at him, all clawed fingernails and with all six pointed teeth bared, that Bilbo managed to force his way through, losing buttons off his waistcoat as he did.

Onto his back he toppled, and the golden ring he’d stolen from Gollum tumbled from his grasp, spun briefly in mid-air and landed perfectly, eerily perfectly, on his outstretched finger. There was a dull ‘whoompf’ noise, like all the air had been sucked of of the immediate area, and Bilbo scrambled back as Gollum squeezed through the gap, almost too shocked by the fact the creature couldn’t seem to see him to notice that the world had become grey and washed out.

Gollum was screaming again, cursing ‘Bagginses’ so thoroughly Bilbo nearly blushed, and then he gambolled off. Bilbo raised himself up carefully, grabbed his scalpel from where he’d accidentally dropped it, and followed with the softest footsteps he could manage on the stony floor. To his relief, the rock still felt solid under his feet and fingertips, even if his eyes seemed to think it soft and barely there at all. A magic ring! Of all the things to practise his thieving on! Bilbo was fairly sure the washed out effect of the world was a side effect of the invisibility, and he was definitely certain that being invisible couldn’t be good for your health in the slightest. Nevertheless taking the ring off would be immediately detrimental to his health when Gollum got his fangs into the hobbit’s throat, so Bilbo kept it on and tiptoed along.

It was a long path, and the hobbit struggled to stay quiet as his feet slipped over pebbles and shale. The gradient was steeply upwards, which Bilbo suspected was a good sign, and he was relatveily content with labouring upwards behind the hissing, cursing Gollum.

Finally they reached a junction, where the passage joined a wider metal path that was lit by sallow fluorescent lights. Gollum was clearly not keen to go further, but his desperation for his precious kept him peering out past a boulder and blocking Bilbo’s way through.

 Footsteps pounded on the metal, and Gollum ducked down and hid with a desperate expression on his drawn face, but Bilbo had no time for sympathy.

Dwarves! Even in the washed out world Bilbo could see they stood out like solid chunks of rock, their heavy footsteps echoing loud and Thorin’s roar for everyone to keep up as clear as if he had been shouting from right beside Bilbo’s ear. Gandalf was with them as well, grey suit a blurry mess in the world of the ring, but his staff a beacon of light in his hand. Bilbo longed to bolt after them, but Gollum was directly in the way and he knew he had little hope of getting past those horrible grabby hands.

He crept closer, knowing he would have to make his move quickly as goblins were also shouting nearby now, and took a deep breath to steel himself for what he was about to do. The scalpel was cold and slippy in his hand, and he had to grip it tight to make sure he didn’t lose his hold. He knew the exact point he’d have to slash into Gollum’s thin neck to cut the vessels and rid the wretched creature of his life once and for all, and he wanted to, he did. Gollum was dangerous and horrible and it was such a pathetic life, and….

It was a truly pathetic life. Bilbo’s heart broke a little with the thought and he could  no longer even look at the scalpel in his hand. Gollum was a sad little thing, crippled with lack of food, warmth, sunlight and affection, and now Bilbo was taking away the one thing he had appeared to find comfort in. Gollum snuffled quietly and Bilbo put the scalpel back into his pocket, feeling sick at what he had so nearly done. He was a good hobbit and a good doctor, and he could not harm something that he pitied so much.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I wish there was something I could do.” Gollum’s head whipped about, eyes narrowing poisonously, but Bilbo was already pushing past, driving an elbow into the creature’s skinny gut to knock him backwards and wind him. The door out was swinging shut on heavy hinges, but Bilbo hit it at full pace and bounded out onto metal platform, not far from a huge road bridge. He hurried across and hopped the barrier, heading downhill as fast as his bare feet could take him.

Behind Gollum was screaming again, promising not to forget what Bilbo Baggins had done to him, and the sound would remain with the doctor for a long time even after the adventure was done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gollum! You're so terrifying...
> 
> Next time! Running! And more running! And orcs!
> 
> (And eagles.)


	9. Chapter 9

Bilbo Baggins ran down the bridge as fast as his feet could take him. Ahead, the ground dropped away steeply to great grassy plains and a sparking river in the very distance, reflecting the light from the setting sun. Absently – for want of anything that might distract him from the grains of asphalt digging into his soles and the burning ache in his legs as he ran – Bilbo wondered just how long he’d been under the mountain. It had been dark when he and the dwarves had entered the tunnel, but the depth and darkness underground had not only confused Bilbo’s sense of direction, but taken his perception of time with it.

He reached the end of the road bridge, where it began to near the ground again, and stopped for a brief breather at the side of the road. This turned out to be a very good plan indeed, because there imprinted in the mud were the footprints of many heavy dwarf boots, leading off into the forest.

Why had they gone that way? Bilbo supposed he should have greater confidence in Thorin and Gandalf’s directional skills, but so far they had stuck to the roads.. Going into the depth of this forest – close and dark with pine trees – seemed like a bad idea to Bilbo. The people who had built the road had certainly known where they were going in the first instance – they probably had excellent reason for sending the road off in a great curving sweep down to the north. This was Bilbo’s Baggins side, which felt that it had been very much ignored in the past few days and was determined to makes its point heard again. The Took in him was still cowering in a heap over his encounter with Gollum, so Bilbo trudged off the road and followed the dwarves’ track through the forest in a high bad mood.

Nothing in the forest made his mood improve any. The forest floor was covered in pointy dry needles, making it impossible to move quietly and which kept getting stuck between his toes and in his foot hair and making him itch, and the few bare places were rocky and sore on his otherwise tough feet. Low hanging branches would often smack him in the face, and the only comfort he could take from any of this was that he was short enough to miss the most of them.

The forest grew too dark to follow any tracks soon enough, and Bilbo simply blundered downhill, panic starting to ooze up from the pit of his stomach. Perhaps the company had taken a different route, and now he was just lost in the forest, with little chance of finding the road again. He didn’t want to be the hobbit that managed to get over the Misty Mountains only to starve to death in a pine forest, half the continent away from where he had been intending to get to.

Then suddenly, noise! Voices ahead of him arguing, so that could only be the dwarves. But behind was a great echoing roar of machines, and perhaps the distant howl of wolves, and Bilbo picked up his feet and ran.

He burst out into a clearing, and there were his dwarves, though he was still wearing his ring and they could not see him. They seemed to be mostly intact, though without their packs  and various loads of equipment. They were all wearing varying degrees of worried expression, except Thorin who looked frankly mutinous – impressive, thought Bilbo, since it was _his_ Company after all – and Gandalf, who appeared very angry indeed.

They were still arguing, and Bilbo realised they were arguing about _him_.

“I will tell you exactly where he has gone,” barked Thorin, his fists clenched just below the hem of his lovely warm coat. Bilbo stared at it in longing and recalled that he was still damp and cold. “Doctor Baggins saw his chance and took it! He’s thought of nothing but his home comforts and his cosy surgery since he first stepped out of his door. We will not being seeing our Hobbit again. He is long gone.”

Bilbo’s first reaction was blazing anger. Well! If that was what Thorin thought of him, then the lot of them could go hang! He had missed his home and he had missed his calm work, and he had had that slip of confidence when he had been cold and in the dark and feeling unappreciated, but he hadn’t _left_. Not on purpose anyway.

He pulled off the ring, colour returning to the world in a manner that made his eyes water for a second, and stepped forward. His anger had burnt hard and fast, and now there was only cold steely resolve, tempered by his anger. People spoke of the stubbornness of the dwarves, but they had clearly never met a hobbit when he was in a determined mood.

“No he isn’t,” he said, loudly and clearly and, above all else, calmly. Thirteen pairs of eyes swung about to look at him and he smiled brightly, trotting a bit closer and patting Balin on the shoulder as he passed. He gave Thorin a bit more of a steely glare, just to get across the point that he had heard everything the dwarf lord had said and that he hadn’t appreciated it. It was a stare that had put the fear into quite a few patients, mostly the more recalcitrant ones who arrived laste at night, but he didn’t have much time to hold it before he was leapt on by the Durin brothers.

“How on earth did you get past the Goblins?” exclaimed Fili, his heavy arm slung around Bilbo’s neck.

“We thought you’d left!” said Kili.

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” said Bilbo, easing himself away – Fili’s coat smelt quite heavily of goblin. “I slipped away in the dark when they weren’t looking. What happened to you while I was gone?”

Kili and Fili spilled the story in tandem; the company had been bundled downstairs and along a series of walkways to be brought in front of the Great Goblin. He was a great pale goblin, and the brothers’ description of him led Bilbo to believe the creature was suffering from some severe form of hypothyroidism. The dwarves had been stripped of their weapons, until the goblins had come across the guns. Goblins hated and feared guns more than most creatures, and the discovery had driven them into a fearsome anger and only the sudden, mysterious arrival of Gandalf had saved the day. They had gathered up their weapons and had fled for their lives – the description of their headlong flight was cut short by their uncle.

“And how did _you_ get away, burglar?” growled Thorin. “Because you have certainly not answered that yet.”

Bilbo cleared his throat and tapped his waistcoat pocket, where the ring was safely tucked away. He didn’t know if he wanted to share his discovery with anyone just yet.

“Surely that is not important,” said Gandalf the social worker, changing the grip on his staff. “As long as he is here.”

“But why is he here?” snapped Thorin, “Why did you come back?”

Bilbo stared at the dwarf lord, at his clenched fists and grim expression and felt not anger for once, but sorrow. Poor Thorin, who only wanted to get his mountain back and for whom the only response he seemed able to conjure to something going wrong was anger. “You’re right, you know. I think of Bag End, and of my surgery, and my nice armchair and my happy patients. That’s where I belong. That’s home. And that’s why I came back, because you don’t have one. It was taken from you, but I will help you take it back if I can.”

Slowly, by increment, Thorin’s fists unclenched. His eyebrows relaxed from their scowl, and a fresh light came into his eyes. All around him, Bilbo could see the same new expression on all the dwarves’ faces, and there in the background was Gandalf, nodding and smiling like a proud parent.

“Well said, doctor hobbit,” said Thorin finally. There was almost a smile on his lips now, and something almost _affectionate_ in his eyes. Bilbo might have taken the ring out of his pocket and confessed his method of cave-escape, in case it would be helpful for the quest, then and there – possibly including some information about his desperate urge to kiss Thorin when he smiled like that – when sudden silence fell.

It was too late to realise, but the engine noises from the road had been growing louder and louder, but so steadily no one had put two and two together. Car doors slammed and something _howled_.

“Out of the frying-pan,” said Thorin

“And into the fire!” snapped Gandalf. He jabbed a finger downhill. “Run! Run!”

 

* * *

 

They ran.

The forest was thinner here, but there were more rocks and boulders to slip down or fall over. Bilbo did not dare to look back, but he could hear snarling and snapping not far away – something sprang over him and forced him to a hurried stop before he catapulted into its gaping jaws. His brought his scalpel out, for all the benefit it would do him, and faced down a great warg. It was all wiry hair and slavering jaws, and a dreadfully stereotypical collar with spikes on.

“Good dog?” tried Bilbo, for want of anything else. The others were getting so far ahead!

The warg snapped and lunged, and Bilbo’s hand jerked out  reflexively, his knuckles impacting with hard bone and wiry hair. He cracked open eyes he hadn’t realised he’d closed and found his scalpel embedded deeply through the creature’s eye socket. It was very dead, through some sheer bolt of luck, and Bilbo struggled to wrench the blade from its face before he bolted onwards.

Ahead of him, the company had reached another road and were moving down at speed, but Bilbo sprinted until he had caught up again. Wargs kept pace in the forests around, some moving out to block the road ahead and others completing the circle to trap them from behind.

“Where’s the social worker?” asked Bilbo, letting Thorin drag him into the centre of a protective circle the dwarves had formed. Most of them were armed with their guns, while others only had their knives as protection.

“Said something about moths,” grunted Dwalin, big fists closed tight on the heft of his pistol. “And then buggered off up a tree.”

“Maybe we should have gone the same way,” said Bilbo, wistfully looking up at the heights of the pines nearby.

“Aye, and then we could fall to our deaths instead of being eaten. Great plan.”

Headlights illuminated the wargs, as cars drew down the mountain road. Some of the beasts shuffled back to make way for the vehicles, and out clambered orcs, orcs from the all the doors and the boot and the sun roof. Some were leading other wargs on great chains, and others collected up their creatures to join their ranks.

“No stinkin’ elves to help you this time, eh?” hissed a nearby orc, yanking on the chain of his warg to make it growl and bark. “Poor dwarves, on their own. What will they do?”

“Die, most likely,” sniggered someone else. “Yazneg’s still in Rivendell’s prison.”

“Shouldn’t have eaten those babies,” said another orc. “Elves don’t like it when you eat babies.”

“Elves can suck it,” said the first one, turning his – or her, because orc genders were… confusing… at the best of times, not least at dusk in a pine forest – attention back to the company. “You’ve caused us nothin’ but trouble you lot. You stop us taking your cars, you sic the elf police on us.” He smiled, baring teeth that would have brought a dentist to tears. “And old Azog didn’t like you much at the start.”

“Azog!” hissed Thorin. “I thought he was too busy crawling in the depths of Moria, weeping for his lost arm.”

A new voice spoke. It was not a pleasant voice, though it lacked the saliva-rich quality of the other orcs’ speech, because it held some truly deep and cruel malice. Thorin nearly leapt out of the circle then and there, but Dwalin and Balin held him back. “Not as much as you wept for your grandfather.” A huge orc, skin as pale as moonlight and with ice chips for irises, stalked forward. At his heel was a white warg, and it snapped and snarled at the surrounding beasts til they cowered back. “And your father.”

“Do not speak of them!” hissed Thorin. “You filth!”

Azog laughed, and Bilbo shuddered at the sound. “Moria is mine, prince.” He said the title mockingly. “And so are the lvies of your forebears. What a shame.”

“I’ll cut off much more than your arm this time!”

Bilbo swallowed as he realised what the dwarf lord meant. The pale orc was missing an arm, just below the elbow, and the replacement prosthetic was hideous – rusting steel and spikes and hooks, and Bilbo couldn’t imagine such an arrangement made simple tasks like brushing your teeth easy at all. Perhaps that explained the scars on the orc’s face at the very least.  

“Please, try.” Azog laughed and jabbed his prosthetic arm forward. “Kill the rest. Leave me the prince.”

The wargs and orcs pounced, and it was vicious. A few died at the muzzles of the dwarves’ guns, but their numbers were too great and before long they were defending themselves desperately as teeth and knives nipped and lashed at them. Thorin elbowed through the circle, laying an orc flat with a punch to the face, and then he leapt at Azog. The white warg at the orc’s heel sprang at him, and Bilbo could barely hear Balin’s scream of denial over the pounding of his heart as the beast knocked the dwarf lord flat on his back with a forepaw and Azog showed just was his prosthetic hand was truly good for.

Now the dwarves fought harder, trying to push through and reach their fallen leader, but the orcs seemed to delight in holding them in that position, to watch and to suffer. There was a sickening crunch as the white warg bit down across Thorin’s midsection and tossed him to the side like a ragdoll, and Bilbo could not stand it.

Brandishing his scalpel, jabbing it into hips and soft warg underbellies, he darted through the crowd and found himself on the other side just as a orc approached Thorin’s fallen body. The dwarf was struggling to get up, but he had no hope of succeeding and the orc laid a blood stained sword across his throat.

“Bring me his head,” said Azog.

Bilbo thought to himself that he was a doctor, and that hurting people was entirely unethical. But on the other hand, there was no choice for him. He threw himself at the orc, knowing exactly where to aim the blade and, with surprise on his side, the deed was done in short order. His scalpel made a dull sucking noise as it slipped from the orc’s thigh, where he had stabbed and slashed through the femoral vessels to magnificent effect. Now he was in between Thorin and Azog, and this was where he was certain it would all come to naught.

The great white orc looked at him dispassionately, and Bilbo found his rage and fear held back his tears of shock at what he’d just done.

“Kill him,” said Azog. “This has become tiresome.”

There was confusion: dwarves broke out of the circle, there was gun fire and the shrieking of swords and knives on scabbards and the ‘thwop’ of throwing axes. Bilbo flung himself forward and stabbed the white ward in the side of the face, getting tossed down by Thorin for his troubles. The dwarf looked to be barely breathing, and Bilbo desperately tried to find a pulse while waving his scalpel at the advancing albino warg.

“Look up!” someone shouted, “Look at the sky!”

Searchlights lit up the road, and the orcs screamed in pain at the brightness of the lights. Wind buffeted Bilbo as he clutched at Thorin’s throat and prayed for a pulse. When he leant his head down there was a wash of soft breath against his cheek, and maybe there was a shallow thump underneath his shaking fingers. All around orcs were being picked up and thrown aside and wargs were running yelping into the forest. Bilbo heard Azog give a roar of rage, but there was nothing the pale orc could do now.

“The Eagles!” cried Kili, quite unnecessarily, “The Eagles have come!”

“And your social worker!” boomed Gandalf, appearing from amid the forest, his staff aloft and beaming bright light. “Dr Baggins! Is our leader alive?”

“I…” Bilbo groped for the pulse again, worried he’d invented it. “Yes,” he said, managing to sound much more confident than he felt. “He’s alive.”

“The Eagles will take us to the Carrock,” said Gandalf, wafting his staff towards some orcs who had escaped the birds’ talons. “These are Life-Flight Eagles,  after all and Beorn’s Medical Centre is near enough by.”

“I should stay with Thorin,” said Bilbo hurriedly, as bird after bird swooped down and picked up talonfuls of dwarf. “He needs a doctor to watch him; he’s badly hurt.”

“You’re a GP, Dr Baggins,” said Gandalf, with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, and that means I’m still a sodding doctor!”

“He shall be fine, Bilbo,” said Gandalf, and even if Bilbo _was_ the sodding doctor around those parts, it was all too easy to believe the wizard when he spoke like that. “He shall survive the journey.”

“I’m not sure I will,” said Bilbo as an eagle swooped in and swept him away, and he wasn’t sure what journey he was speaking of.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a moment from all these FEEEELS Bilbo has to say thank you to all commenters and anyone leaving kudos. I never reply as much as I should, but I do appreciate the feedback! I crave it like a dwarf craves gold. Or a hobbit pipeweed and seven meals a day. 
> 
> Next week! The Carrock! Beorn! Ponies-that-are-not-ponies-but-not-quite-people-either! Flirting! And misjudging just how much of the worst there is yet to come!


	10. Chapter 10

Where the eagles flew the air was freezing cold and thin, but Bilbo had little time for his own woes. He had ended up perched on the back of one of the great birds, hands entangled in the huge feathers and holding tight with fear. Around flew the flock, and if he strained his eyes the hobbit could spot which of the dwarves the eagles carried, although it was not until dawn began to rise when he became utterly certain of who was who.

The bird that carried Gandalf was furthest ahead in the flock, the social worker a distant column of grey on its back, and its closest neighbour was the eagle carrying Thorin in its talons.

That was why Bilbo worried so much; Thorin still hadn’t shown signs of movement, and the  thin air could surely be doing him little good. What if he woke and found himself suspended so high in the air, with no idea of how he got there? Bilbo cringed at the thought and willed the eagles to reach their destination quicker.

 

* * *

 

There were sirens in the distance now, wafting up on the thermals the eagles were soaring about on. Bilbo had never been more glad to hear such a noise, even when it made the eagles screech and turn away to the north.

“Beorn will be here soon,” said Gandalf, pressing a hand onto Bilbo’s shoulder. “And Thorin is strong still. The injuries are not severe.”

Bilbo surveyed his bloodied hands and snorted grimly, but then the atmosphere about the Company abruptly changed and the doctor looked down just in time to see Thorin’s blue eyes flicker open. Ignoring the encroaching circle of other dwarves, Bilbo struggled up to lean over and meet Thorin’s gaze – he was out of focus and bleary for only a few moments, until he blinked a few times and looked directly at the hobbit.

“Doctor,” he wheezed, and by the Valar, he sounded like he was in _pain._ Bilbo’shands clenched on his knees in sheer frustration at how useless he was: he had no equipment beyond his own hands, the rest lost to the goblins, and the ambulance was still approaching, not sounding much closer. “How are… My company?”

“Fine,” said Bilbo, glancing up and looking around to check retrospectively. Sure enough, the others seemed fine, maybe more bruised and scratched than normal but certainly none of them were lying on the floor and wheezing with each breath. “All fine.”

“And you?” With a great amount of effort, Thorin twisted his arm nearest to the doctor and caught his hand. A second after the horrified expression developed on Thorin’s face, Bilbo realised he had rather made a mistake. His hands were covered in blood after all, wet and sticky as they dried, and Thorin did not realise it was his own. The dwarf lord surged up too quick for anyone else to move to pin him down, and too strong for Bilbo to even have a mission and keeping him in place, and gripped Bilbo’s wrists to examine his hands.

“I’m fine,” cried Bilbo, turning his hands this way and that in Thorin’s grip to prove there was no injury. “The blood is yours, from where the warg had bitten you. Now, lie back down, you silly fool, before you do yourself any more of an injury. The ambulance is coming.”

Scoffing, and wheezing still Bilbo couldn’t help but notice, Thorin grumbled something about not needing an ambulance, but both Kili and Dwalin were looming behind Thorin’s shoulders, ready to keep him sitting down if needs be. Instead, Thorin seemed content to sit and hold Bilbo’s wrists, a determined clench appearing on his jawline.

“You came in between Azog’s men and me,” said Thorin, and his grip tightened on Bilbo’s wrists, until it was almost painful. “What were you doing?” You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not say you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild and that you had no place amongst us?”

For Bilbo Baggins, who had been so desperate to see Thorin safe and so determined to protect him he had murdered an orc, it was a heart shattering blow. He could not even summon the will to pull his hands from Thorin’s grip and storm off, or to snap back that he had certainly survived the wilderness more intact than Thorin himself. Instead he sat there, dumbstruck and sure he was about to cry when Thorin spoke again.

“I have never been so wrong in all my life,” murmured the dwarf, and he tugged on the hobbit’s wrists once, the pull tumbling Bilbo forward and into a deep hug. “I am sorry I doubted you.”

Shock kept Bilbo tense for a few moments, and then the fear he would hurt Thorin further, but when the dwarf seemed intent on keeping him in his grip, the doctor relaxed and brought his hands up to return the embrace as carefully as he could. His chin fitted neatly onto one of Thorin’s broad shoulders, his hands clench into the leather coat and he could tilt his head to the side and feel long hair and heavy braids brush his cheek. He could not explain why, but he could have remained held like this for a long time, with Thorin’s hands spread on his back and his breath wheezing in his ear.

“I hate to interrupt the moment, lads,” said Bofur, wry amusement in his voice, “But the ambulance has arrived.”

 

* * *

 

There was a road down, but it was long, winding and steep, and would deposit anyone who walked it in the depths of wilderness once more. The only way away from the Carrock, as the young men – and Bilbo described them as men in the loosest terms, because at least one of them appeared to have hooves rather than feet – was by eagle or by the ambulances that fetched the patients deposited here by the birds.

It was agreed – by Bilbo and Gandalf mostly – that Thorin and the doctor hobbit would take this first ambulance to Beorn’s Medical Centre to the east, and the others would follow in whatever transport Beorn would send for them later. Thorin insisted upon climbing into the ambulance himself, leaning heavily on Dwalin’s shoulder, and Bilbo found himself picked up by the scruff of his neck and placed on the first step.

“That was entirely unnecessary,” he grumbled, turning to shake a finger in Dwalin’s scarred face. “I can still climb.”

“Just taking care of our doctor.” Dwalin swivelled him about and threatened to apply his boot to the seat of Bilbo’s trousers if he did not get a move on. “And you’ll be caring for our leader.”

“Yes, yes.” When Bilbo glanced back though, the warrior dwarf was smiling and the hobbit found himself smiling back. “I’ll keep him in one piece.”

While the paramedics did appear to have hooves rather than feet, they are still capable of driving, and Thorin made it clear he wanted only Bilbo’s medical attention, so both of the men sat in the front cab and Bilbo was left alone with a battered dwarf on a trolley and bags and bags of kit as the ambulance rattled off.

Gleefully, Bilbo dug through the cases and cabinets, collecting handfuls of kit he might need, and then turns to Thorin. Perhaps his smile was a bit too manic, but the dwarf certainly seemed to recoil from his expression then.

“Time to get your top off,” said Bilbo cheerfully.

“I think you could have picked a better time to seduce me,” rumbled Thorin, but he shrugged off his coat, wincing as the movement jarred his injury, and plucked at the hem of his jumper. “And I hate to add to the theme now, but I will not be able to remove this without help.”

Bilbo, blushing furiously because he _wasn’t_ seducing anyone but trying to bloody heal them, hurried to help, easing the fabric off one arm at a time. Just as the jumper was removed and Thorin was dealing with the buttons on his shirt one handed, the ambulance hit the first switchback on the road down from the Carrock, and Bilbo was flung neatly over the dwarf’s lap. He ended up with his face mostly pressed against the side of the ambulance, which was less than comfortable, and his feet wiggling helplessly off the other side of the trolley.

Thorin gave a low rumble, and a hand that very nearly spanned the whole width of Bilbo’s back settled just above his belt, where his jacket was flipped up and his waistcoat and shirt ridden high. “Now I was certainly jesting before, but now it does seem like you are intent on luring me in.”

“It seems like I have fallen over!” squeaked Bilbo, who had still not lost his tendency to become shrill in moments of effrontery. “If I was _luring_ you anywhere I would not be doing it like this!” He pried himself up, rolling over to get some purchase without grabbing Thorin’s sore side or pulling his long hair, and ended up sitting sideways between the dwarf’s legs, his knees crooked over a big thigh. “Oh damn, how did I get here?”

Thorin laughed and laughed at that, until he was near gasping for breath and clutching his aching side. By the time Bilbo was genuinely starting to worry, the dwarf lord tipped his head forward to nudge against the hobbit’s curls.

“Come now, I’ve already taken off two layers for you, and still you pay me no heed, doctor,” the dwarf rumbled, good-naturedly, helping Bilbo to hop back down to the floor again. “Though I must say I admire your bedside manner.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes and decided he wasn’t going to respond to any more of this tomfoolery while there was still work to be done. Once he had examined and treated Thorin’s injuries, perhaps then there would be time for some flirting, because there was little way he could interpret the dwarf’s words as anything less. Flirting! With Thorin Oakenshield! The idea made the poor hobbit’s cheeks burn crimson again, especially as he helped ease the shirt sleeves from muscled arms and used a fresh scalpel to slice off the blood stained remains of the vest Thorin wore as his last layer.

Now the injury was visible, and Bilbo could not help but wince at the sight – there were livid bruises and wide spaced tooth marks and it was quite a horrible mess. But at first glance the wounds appeared superficial, although nasty, and, while Thorin grumbled and hissed through having his ribs checked, there seemed to be no further damage underneath. Bilbo was satisfied for now to wash the wounds out and slather them with ointments. Before he cast a blanket over his patient, Bilbo also hunted out a syringe and a little bottle of painkillers, which he swore blind were antibiotics before he jabbed it into the bulk of the muscle of Thorin’s shoulder. In the past twenty four hours he had stolen someone’s ring, killed a warg and murdered an orc; he had few qualms about lying to Thorin Oakenshield to rid him of some of his pain.

With little else to do for now, Bilbo sat down in the seat next to the bed and rocked back and forth with the swaying of the ambulance. No longer did they appear to be going down the series of switchbacks, but the road quality seemed to have decreased and occasionally they would lurch through a pothole with an enormous crash of the undercarriage and an upset whinny from the front. Thorin had grown quiet with the effect of the drugs, his eyes flickering closed every so often but always slamming open again eventually. There was a certain amount of distress visible in the thinness of his lips and the clench and release of his fists where they rested on the blanket, and Bilbo reached out a hand and set it carefully on top of Thorin’s forearm, fingers curled to the soft inner surface where the hair was transparently fine. With a soft sigh, the tension drained out of the dwarf king and he shifted his arm, bending it awkwardly to catch hold of Bilbo’s fingers in his own and squeezing gently.

“Sleep,” said Bilbo, in his kindest tone. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Those were not antibiotics,” said Thorin, sounding mildly peeved, but he obeyed Bilbo regardless.

 

* * *

 

Beorn’s Medical Centre was a compound in the middle of nowhere, with a long recently asphalted driveway leading from the main road and through fields of clover so large Bilbo couldn’t see where they ended. The compound was surrounded by tall fences and inside hived with business. Ambulances were leaving by the herd, sirens wailing and lights flashing, and a few medic elves and Men trotted about busily. The majority of the population was made up, however, of people who very much resembled the paramedics in the initial ambulance – all of them bearing slightly too much of a resemblance to some kind of animal to be thought of as fully human. As the paramedics pushed Thorin’s trolley – the dwarf fully asleep now – through the corridors Bilbo followed close behind and was certain he spotted an actual pony pushing a wheelchair in the other direction. It was all very odd, but it was welcoming and comfortable and Bilbo liked a place where it was warm and the walls were all panelled with handsomely varnished wood. Thorin was transferred to a bed in an otherwise silent ward, and Bilbo busied himself filling in notes and forms on the dwarf’s behalf until the doors rebounded off the wooden walls and a man walked in.

Well, Bilbo supposed he was a man. He was _huge_ , although anyone over five and a half foot tall was very big in relation to a hobbit. But this man had to bow his head to get through the door, and his legs were so tall Bilbo suspected he could run between them without catching his head on anything important. He was shaggy haired and with a thick stubbly beard, and his voice boomed so loudly Bilbo regretted ever thinking the dwarves were loud.

“You are Gandalf’s friends?” He stomped over and surveyed the pair of them with a beady black eye. “A dwarf and a…” He pursed his lips. “And a whatever you are.”

“I’m a hobbit,” said Bilbo, too tired to feel annoyed.

“You bear a certain resemblance to some of my rabbits,” said the great man.

Bilbo squeaked, “I am not a bunny rabbit!”

The man snorted and bent over Thorin’s bed, peeling back the blanket to look at the wound. “Not bad work. I hadn’t realised Gandalf had branched into first aid.”

“He hasn’t,” said Bilbo, still a bit sulky about being called a rabbit. “That’s my work. I am a doctor.”

The man peered at him, giving him another once over, and then laughed so loudly that he woke Thorin from his sleep. “Well met, Doctor Hobbit! What is your name then?”

“Dr Bilbo Baggins.” Bilbo bowed his head politely, and grasped Thorin’s wrist to hold him still against this obvious urge to leap up and shove the huge man away from himself. “May I ask yours?”

“I am Beorn!” The man straightened and placed his fists on his hips. “This is my medical centre! I am no doctor, you see, but I have lived in the wilds for many years and I know the desperation travellers might feel when they come a cropper in the middle of nowhere.”

“Your welcome is very much appreciated,” said Bilbo.

“I also supply bathing rooms for anyone who might require one.”

Bilbo looked down at himself and made a face. His clothes were grimy and blood spattered, and all bared skin was grey with filth. The smell of warg and goblin and hard travel made itself known, and the temptation was very great indeed. Thorin certainly smelt no better, but he was injured and Bilbo was prepared to give him a bit of leeway.

“Master Oakenshield needs better medical attention that I have already offered,” he said, standing anyway.

“My doctors will attend to him immediately,” said Beorn. “Will you be needing anything yourself?”

Bilbo stroked down his waistcoat and shook his head. He was sore and battered and certainly he had scratches and bruises, but nothing more serious. “A good bath will cure all sins.”

“I will fetch someone to show you the way,” said Beorn, patting Bilbo on the head gently. “Rest until then.”

Thorin had been tense since he woke up and only relaxed when Beorn ducked his head under the doors on his way out. “You are uninjured?” he asked, his voice still woozy and his eyes drifting shut again already. Bilbo sighed and took up his hand again.

“I am fine, but I stink like a warg. You go to sleep again and your company will be here soon.”

“I don’t mind that you smell like a warg,” said Thorin.

“Yes, but I do! Sleep!”

 

* * *

 

After his bath, Bilbo certainly felt a lot more like the civilised hobbit he was, and returned to the ward in a much better state of mind to find the place filled with dwarves. Each dwarf had a doctor at their bedside – mostly Men, as Beorn had shown himself to be savvy in cross-species relations – and a person dressed in a well starched uniform and with no thumbs on their hands. They had smiling faces and attentive expressions and, most noticeably, _tails_. But they seemed to be doing a good enough job, and Bilbo’s father had  always said it took all types after all, so it seemed cruel to mark them down simply because they didn’t look entirely human.

Just in case, he paced around the ward and spent a minute with each of the dwarves to make sure they were not seriously injured and their beds were comfortable enough, before he drew the curtains around them all and padded back out of the ward. If the dwarves were here,  then surely Gandalf was too, and Bilbo wanted a word with him.

It wasn’t difficult to find the wizard – he was speaking with Beorn at a far end of a corridor, but their voices boomed and echoed along the wooden floors and Bilbo was able to follow the noise with ease.

“Dr Baggins!” exclaimed the huge man, noticing the hobbit peering around the corner curiously. “How do you find my wards?”

Bilbo complimented him, as was the polite thing to do, and the man laughed in delight, said his goodnights to both of them and stomped away. The social worker and the doctor watched him go, and then Gandalf gestured in the opposite direction.

“There is a canteen just across the way. Would you like a quick meal?”

For once Bilbo wasn’t entirely thrilled about the prospect of eating, but went with the wizard anyway, out of a pair of huge double doors and across to what looked a lot like a barn. Inside it was warm and smelt richly of food, and there were five long tables ranged in front of a steaming kitchen. Cooks were working hard to set more food out in great tureens and bowls – all the people were curly haired under their hairnets, much like hobbits, but they had cloven hooves instead of hands and bleated to each other. Gandalf sat down at the end of one of the tables, far away from the sprinkling of elf doctors and paramedics that sat on the other tables, and one of the sheep cooks trotted out with a plate covered in different types of bread and jam and honey. Bilbo watched absently as it cantered away again and then turned to Gandalf with a quizzical expression.

“Shape-shifters,” said Gandalf, bringing his pipe out of a pocket and sucking on it thoughtfully without lighting it. “They are not well accepted in the cities, for some reason. They struggle to integrate – perhaps it is because they don’t speak, and we still put so much honour in the words of others? But Beorn has provided them with sanctuary and they in turn provide sanctuary for others.” He slathered a piece of thick cut bread with butter and honey and nibbled neatly on the edge. It was as much food as Bilbo had ever seen him take. “Do you like them?”

Bilbo thought about the pony paramedics, and the nurses with dog paws and tails peeking out of their uniforms, and the happy sheep cooks who supplied the tables in the dining hall with the nicest food. He thought you would be hard pressed to dislike the shape-shifters and said as much.

“Good! I had always had you down as a good judge of character, and I would have been sad to have been wrong.” Gandalf chortled to himself and Bilbo slowly ate his way through another jam sandwich.

“Did you think me a good _person_ though?” he asked, quietly, setting his sandwich down and reaching down to his pocket. The scalpel was still there, still bloodied with the blood of the creatures Bilbo had cut down with it.

“Adventures make a person different,” said Gandalf, “I  have no doubt that if you return, you will be a very different hobbit indeed.”

“I think I already am,” murmured Bilbo. “Also, _if_?”

The wizard’s lips tightened. “Adventures are also rather dangerous”

“I’ve already learnt that, to someone else’s cost.”

Gandalf nodded quietly and there was a dark little moment of silence between them.

“I’m a doctor,” said Bilbo quietly, “I’m meant to help make people better. Not _kill_ them.” His voice wavered a bit and he had to duck his head briefly to hide the expression he knew he was wearing. 

“I am sorry,” said Gandalf kindly, “You have managed something that I would never ask of anyone.”

“I feel like a monster.”

Gandalf snorted and reached out to touch one of Bilbo’s hands, startling him from his consideration of the scalpel. “You are no such thing. You are a brave little hobbit and a fine doctor, and I would have you not worry yourself over this. Did you or did you not save Thorin Oakenshield’s life?”

Bilbo cleared his throat and said, “Aye, I guess I did.”

“And do you think the dwarves would have continued on without him? To reclaim Erebor on their own? Do you think they would have even come close to succeeding without their leader?”

Bilbo looked at the wizard’s deep-set, intelligent eyes and said, “I.. No… I suppose not.”

“Then you have saved the quest as well, and the chance that the dwarves will be able to return to their home. You are no monster, Dr Baggins. I hope you see that.”

 “Thank you, Gandalf,” said Bilbo. He felt a bit better already, and part of him thought to confess about his encounter under the mountains with Gollum and how the ring had come into his possession. But the thought of the golden loop still tucked away in his waistcoat pocket made his mouth seal shut and the sound freeze in his throat. Gandalf watched him for a moment, as though he was waiting for Bilbo to say something else but the hobbit busied himself with buttering another slice of bread and avoided the gaze pointedly.

They ate for a while in silence and then Gandalf spoke up again. “I shall be leaving the company before you reach Mirkwood.”

“What?! Why?” Bilbo was horrified by this – Gandalf had come out of their misfortunes unscathed, and whether that was to do with luck or skill, Bilbo was unsure, but it didn’t matter. Without the wizard, they would have come a-cropper in an even more nasty style.

“I am a social worker,” said Gandalf, tucking his beard out of the way to nibble on another bit of honeyed bread. “While the dwarves are an important case, I do have many others. I can’t just leave my job willy-nilly like you!”

“I had to get a locum in!” complained Bilbo. “And I shan’t know what they’re doing to my poor patients until I get back.”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf chortled, “I don’t think you have changed at that much at all. You are still a warm-hearted, worried little soul and I have no doubt you will always remain so.”

Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure whether that was a compliment or not, but decided to take it as such. “Well, if you must go. I’m sure the company will not be pleased, but I see we cannot persuade you otherwise."

He returned to the company not long after, mulling over the conversation in his head as he paced around the room and ducked his head around every curtain to check they were all still abed and resting. When he was sure it was so, he traipsed to the spare bed beside the dwarf lord’s, and fell asleep seconds after his head rested on the pillow.

 

* * *

 

They stayed put for days, exploring the complex and just enjoying being somewhere safe for a while. Bilbo found himself eating as much as a hobbit could – quite a lot as it was, even the dwarves were impressed – and spending the spare time between meals trying to train the herds of paramedics in Beorn’s employ how to administer CPR. Many of them did indeed have hooves instead of hands - some of them looked more human than others – but they learned quickly, and seemed delighted to have a new talent. The unfortunate folk with the dog faces looked on in attentive concern as the paramedic ponies danced about their ambulances with glee at their new talent, and the sheep folk who manned the kitchens bleated in fear and ran away. And at night, there were great snuffling noises at the door of their ward, and Beorn would turn up to breakfast looking shaggy and his beard mussed with honey.

If he had even more spare minutes, Bilbo would entertain himself speaking with Bofur or Balin or the Durin brothers, for they were always welcoming and happy to chat and joke. And he would always keep a spare half hour at the end of each day to march Thorin back to his bed and demand he take his shirt off to check the injuries again. The bruises turn black and green slowly, but the gashes heal much faster and the only thing that remains constant was Thorin’s new attitude towards him. He’s _nice,_ always ready with a smoky smile and a half-lidded gaze that made Bilbo’s stomach fill with butterflies. In return, Bilbo treated the dwarf lord to his collection of best smiles and cheeriest giggles, and the other dwarves merely rolled their eyes and pretended not to notice most of the time.

“The pair of ye could cut the flirting shite and get to the shagging anytime soon, y’know,” said Dwalin one evening, after the doctor had been a touch more tactile than usual. “Some of us can’t handle the sap.”

Thorin cursed him out roundly in Khuzdul as Bilbo blushed furious pink, but the dwarf lord didn’t seem wholly angry at their being called out and Dwalin was allowed to stomp away with all his limbs still intact.

“Ignore them,” said Thorin loftily, closing the gap on the bench between them that Bilbo had opened up with the accusation of flirting. Just because he was doing it didn’t mean he wanted it pointed out. “Are you cold? Here.”

Now Bilbo was fairly sure there was no physical way of being cold in the great canteen, where steam billowed from the kitchens and there was a huge fire in a grate across the room, but when Thorin’s leather coat sprawled over him he nodded despite himself and accepted the offer happily. The velvet embroidered lining was soft and smelt pleasant – the sheep folk who worked in Beorn’s laundry had washed it well, or possibly just replaced it with a brand new coat of exactly the same make – and the leather was comfortingly heavy, like having an arm cast across his shoulders in an affectionate embrace. The other dwarves chortled and smiled to themselves, all neatly avoiding the imperious gaze of their leader except Dwalin, who openly laughed and raised a glass of beer in cheeky toast, swiftly echoed by Fili and Kili who were always dying for some trouble to be in.

The result was a mischievous little argument, which spread into little bickering pools throughout all the dwarves, and _gosh_ , they were having fun while they did it. Bilbo tucked himself thoroughly under Thorin’s coat and wavered between helping Thorin insult his nephews’ intelligence and Dwalin’s ancestry and listening to Bombur and Dori debate over the best way to create a good long-lasting braid. This was peace, for dwarves, and when Thorin actually did throw his arm over Bilbo’s shoulders and Bofur wolf-whistled, Bilbo rather felt the peace too.

 

* * *

 

The calm didn’t last forever though, and the dwarves swiftly became keen to move on. Bilbo was less keen – he had enjoyed being in civilisation again, and he quite liked the company of the shape-shifter folk, who were all friendly if not very talkative.  

“Hmph!” Beorn sounded unimpressed when they told him of their plans to leave and head for the great wood to the east. “Well, I wish you all the luck you need. The roads in Mirkwood are narrow and wind around the trees, so the path is not as straight as it appears on the map. Spiders roam the place with impunity, and gangs of orcs camp out in the darkest clearings. And the elves!” He shook his head. “It is a triage situation in that forest now. You will not find them as welcoming as me if you are injured on the road. Be careful!”

But Beorn’s words and Gandalf’s determination to leave them did nothing to blunt the dwarves’ determination to leave. New bags were packed with supplies and loaded into cars that Beorn had agreed to lend them, weapons were repaired or replaced – Bilbo spent a good hour trying to clean the little scalpel that had saved his life, and Thorin’s, multiple times already and then just gave up and snapped a clean blade on instead – and they were ready to leave very early the next morning.

The shape-shifters had come out to see them off, all the ponies and dogs and sheep gathered together in front of a great brown bear that shuffled and growled in impatience. Gandalf came forward to where Thorin was checking off the route with Balin and Fili, and Bilbo pattered along curiously.

“I will accompany you to the edge of the forest, but then I must divert to my other client. If we do not stop before that point, here is my advice for the rest of your journey through Mirkwood – watch out for spiders, do not upset Thranduil if you can possibly avoid doing so and _stay on the road_!” He rapped a finger against the roof of Thorin’s borrowed car with each word, and pointed a finger at Bilbo. “You, Dr Baggins, will be the one to remind them all of this when the inevitable time comes that they feel they must leave the path. You are sensible! Do not forget!”

“Stay on the road,” repeated Bilbo, to show willing, although he wasn’t sure what he could do to prevent a group of determined dwarves from going where they wanted. Perhaps he should stock up on sedatives, in case he needed to dose them to sleep. “I’ll remember.”

“Good!” Gandalf pointed his warning finger at Thorin now. “Listen to the hobbit, Master Oakenshield.”

Thorin merely blinked, and the social worker grunted in dissatisfaction but trailed away back to the saloon he had borrowed from Beorn as well. The route was decided upon and the dwarves all trailed to their vehicles, and Bilbo was at a momentary loss of who he would ride with until Thorin opened the passenger door of his car.

“I suspect if you are to remind me to stay on the road, we shall have to be in the same car,” he rumbled, patting the seat next to him. Bilbo rolled his eyes but hopped in anyway, opening the window to wave goodbye to the shape-shifters as the cars started up and the convoy rolled out of Beorn’s compound. The gates shut behind them as soon as the last car was through, and then all there was ahead was open road and clover fields.

Bilbo wiggled into a comfortable position in his seat and looked out as apparently endless fields of clover blurred past, huge bees drifting about from flower to flower. The road hummed under the tyres, miles eaten up quickly, and soon there was a great black line on the horizon as the forest loomed into view. Beorn and Gandalf’s words about the forest had been grim, and none of the dwarves had looked forward to the place, but Bilbo was sitting next to Thorin Oakenshield, healthy and hale once more, and he thought things might be all right after all, even if the forest was as  forbidding as it looked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, that was a long one! But next time it's Mirkwood! Everyone's favourite forest! 
> 
> As long as you're not a dwarf. 
> 
> Or a hobbit. 
> 
> Or an arachnophobe.


	11. Chapter 11

The road through the forest was dark and dank, a narrow pathway compared to the motorway and wide freshly paved roads of the plains and around the elf cities. Occasionally two lanes would become one single passing point, the rest of the road blocked by a particularly large tree that had clearly not been intent on being uprooted. The dwarves travelled as fast as they could - the muffled silence of the forest clearly grated on them, more used to the echoing empty noise of a cave - but the road was too narrow, too holed and too winding to risk driving too fast. Certainly stopping for any reason was not an attractive prospect, as eyes would blink and flicker at them from the growth lining the road, reflecting the headlights in a truly unpleasant fashion. Bilbo tucked himself as much as could on the passenger seat and tried to focus on the tarmac ahead so he wouldn’t have to look at the things.

While the hobbit wasn’t adventurous by any normal measures, he had always been a bit of a curiosity by hobbit standards. In his youth he had often wondered what lay outside the borders of the Shire and his career had certainly given him a chance to explore a certain amount.  He had lived in Rivendell for  a few years, visited Lothlorien and Edoras and once taken a trip to the city of Minas Tirith to attend a conference he didn’t particularly care about just to get a look about. As he had settled into his job as the GP in Hobbiton,  Bilbo’s life had calmed to brief trips to Bree and Rivendell,  but he had never been able to bring himself to get rid of the shelf of guide books he had acquired. The books spoke of the sandy east and oliphaunts and the ruins of dwarf cities and the worthwhile perils of trekking the Ephel Duath and Ered Lithui around the rim of Mordor. They had spoken of Mirkwood as well - the biggest forest on the continent,  as wild and natural as any wood in the world bar Fangorn.

He frowned out at the view - trees and straggly bushes and more trees, all in shades of dark green and brown and black interspersed with the odd glowing patch of fungi - and thought to himself that what he had seen of Mirkwood so far had gone far beyond wild.  The trees were claiming back the road, the only manmade thing there, trunks leaning in, roots splitting the tarmac and branches trailing low enough to rattle against the roofs of the cars.  here was a constant sensation like they were being watched,  and the glowing eyes in the shrubs were not even the half of it.  So as it was Bilbo was quite happy they didn’t stop to take in the scenery. 

 

* * *

 

By the time what little light that seeped through the canopy started to pinken and turn golden with the sunset,  Thorin decided that they had made good progress through the forest and began to make noises about finding a spot to stop for the night. Tasked with trying to spot a good place,  Bilbo pressed his face to his window and stared into the gloom hopelessly.  All he could see were trees and bushes and glowing eyes,  and the light was darkening so much he was sure he surely struggle to see anything that the head lights weren’t directly illuminating.  Dwarves that iridescent layer of cells in their eyes, which made it possible for them to see in  the dark but hobbit eyes were quite the opposite - designed to be keen in brighter light - so Bilbo felt himself at a distinct disadvantage in the dark places Thorin kept insisting they travel through. 

In the end it was Thorin who spotted their campsite for the night, as they broke from the close cover of the forest suddenly and the cars shuddering over the join in the asphalt that marked the start of a bridge.  On the other side was an empty grassy space, just the right size for the cars to park up without running over too many of the young saplings that were attempting to recolonize the area.  By the camp ran a fast flowing river,  deep and dark and hissing under the bridge and past the banks in a distinctly menacing way. When Bofur tried to draw a bucket of water up,  the water turned out to be murky black colour and no amount of boiling and attempts at filtering made it look any better.  Bilbo was afraid he was going to have to put his foot down about the prospect of drinking it,  but thankfully the dwarves had a sensible moment and decided to take from their rations of water instead. 

Dinner was concocted from the supplies Beorn had given them, and Bilbo happily wolfed his way through a cheese sandwich while perched on the bonnet of Thorin’s borrowed car, the dwarf's coat slung over his shoulders where he trying to avoid getting crumbs on it. The  dwarves were ranged about a fire, chatting quietly with none of their usual boisterousness. Even Fili and Kili were behaving themselves, keeping sharp eyes on the range of trees around them. 

"They won’t bite,  you know," said Bilbo, polishing off the last of his sandwich happily. He turned to look at the nearest trees,  huge things that they were with fat trunks and branches quivering in the wind.  Which was quite odd all things considered because there was no breeze down here at all, making the air still and humid.  Because he was an honest soul, the hobbit doctor added,  "Probably."

"I’d not be so sure," said Thorin, throwing Bilbo an apple. "This is an unpleasant forest and the longer we are in it,  the more I suspect you will come to see that. "

Bilbo hmphed but bit into his apple anyway. 

"Just as long as no bloody elves come across us," said Gloin, his eyes focused on the bridge behind them.  "Though if we do I might have words to say about the workmanship on that bridge!"

The dwarves all chuckled and agreed and Bilbo craned his neck around to look as well, even though he couldn’t even make out the road let alone the bridge itself.  "Is it good work?"  he asked and was immediately met with roar of derision. 

"I’ve seen better stone work on a dwarfling's first carving!" rumbled Dwalin. 

"It’s just been quarried all wrong!" cried Bofur, echoed by a string of Khuzdul from Bifur. 

"It’ll fall down within the century if they don’t keep an eye on it," said Dori. 

"More likely the decade even if they do, " muttered Nori, who was picking his teeth with a small dagger.

"I thought the woodwork was all right though,  said Ori, looking up from the tiny notebook he always kept tucked in the pocket of his shirt. "They bad some nice carvings on."

The dwarves all looked back into the gloom and Bilbo grumpily chewed on his apple, pretending to himself that he wasn’t sulking he couldn’t see too. 

"Well,  wood carving... " said Fili,  clearly trying to find a way around this dissenting opinion. "It was all right."

"Everyone has to be good at something,” said Kili,  with the slightly depressing fervency of one who had been told that a lot during childhood.  

"Aye.  Have a look at our burglar," said Dwalin, who was grinning mischievously in  the firelight. Bilbo wrinkled his nose at the sudden attention.  "Not the best fighter and can’t judge stone worth a damn but he’s feisty and he can eat like a champion. The burglarising remains to be seen. "

"I can also doctor as well, " Bilbo reminded them shortly,  throwing his apple sore with deadly accuracy and bouncing it off Dwalin's bald head. "Just in case you hurt yourself and need someone willing to patch you up."

"Feisty like I said," chortled Dwalin as the other dwarves chuckled as well.  Thorin got up on the pretence of fetching another hunk of wood for the fire,  pausing to ruffle Bilbo's hair. 

The dwarves were in a high mood by now and started to sing, led by Fili and Kili yowling in falsetto tones, but the forest swallowed the sound and made their attempts at boisterousness meek and hollow. The song petered out quickly and the mood crashed just as quickly as it had lifted. Tension wreathed itself around the company’s shoulders, and Thorin decided everyone should get to bed and prepare for another long day of driving.

No one wanted to camp outside, so they all bedded down in their cars, complaining about the cramped space they had to sleep in. Bilbo found it comfortable enough to curl up in the passenger seat of the car, since it was a nice size for him, especially wrapped up in Thorin’s coat. The dwarf lord himself sprawled on the back seat under a woollen blanket and wriggled about uncomfortably for a few minutes before he relaxed and reached out to prod Bilbo in the back of the head.

“What?” Bilbo murmured, as he had been on the edge of falling asleep already.

“Sleep well, Dr Baggins,” said Thorin.

“Sleep well,” replied Bilbo.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo woke with a start and a curse as he stubbed his toe on the dashboard. Outside of the car was still dark and everything was silent. It was a mystery to him why he had woken quite so suddenly, so he stayed awake and listening intently. Thorin was breathing deeply behind him, and in the forest about them were the soft sounds of insects and night creatures creeping and clicking. There was one sole light nearby, where Kili sat behind the wheel of his car on watch, wielding a torch against the dark, but he hadn’t appeared to move.

There was a soft click, metallic and hollow. Bilbo’s pulse surged up and the hairs on the back of his neck rose to attention. He listened even more closely, straining his eyes to see through the dark and wondering about climbing over Thorin and into the boot to fetch a torch of his own when a shape, unclear in the murk blundered past Kili’s light.

It was only Bombur, and he leant in to speak something through the window to the younger dwarf that Kili nodded at and waved the other dwarf away. Stretching uncomfortably – for it had to be a tight squeeze to fit his bulk in the car he shared with his brother and cousin – Bombur toddled off past the point in the gloom where Bilbo could see him.

The hobbit relaxed back into his seat – Bombur had been the thing to waken him by opening the car door, and the metallic noise had only been him closing it again – but there still remained a modicum of tension under his skin and the hair on the back of his neck refused to settle back down. He tried to wriggle into a new position and calm himself by counting through different types of biscuits and the sort of tea they should be paired with for preference, but just as he reached ginger snaps there was a terrified shout and a splash.

A splash?

“He’s fallen in the river!” Bilbo shouted as he leapt out of the car, throwing blankets and coats to the wind. The other dwarves were tumbling out of their cars sleepily and blearily, and Bilbo had only Kili as company as someone who had an idea of what was happening. “Below the bridge!” Bilbo shouted, scurrying a few steps into the dark. “Below the bridge quickly, or Bombur will be swept away!”

Kili hared off, with Fili, Bofur and Bifur in close pursuit. There was a moment of continued confusion until Bilbo shouted his command again, and Thorin echoed it in a much louder voice. The rest of the dwarfs raced off too, taking with them nets and ropes and things they had hurriedly extricated from their vehicles. Bilbo felt he should race after them too, but in the dark he was much more likely to simply get in the way or become another casualty. Instead he caught Thorin’s eye and said, “When you fish him out, bring him to me. Even if he’s awake! I’ll have to check him over!”

“Aye, doctor,” said Thorin, with a quick nod of the head. He tossed Bilbo the keys to their borrowed car. “Turn the lights on, so that you might be able to work.”

Bilbo hurriedly scrambled into the driver’s seat, noting that even with the adjustments to the driver’s seat and pedals there was no hope of him being able to either see over the dashboard or reach the accelerator, inserted the key and turned the high beams on. Then he crawled through into the bag and hauled out the big bag of medical things that Beorn and his shape shifter paramedics and nurses had so kindly given to him. Already he could hear shouts and timed grunts as the dwarves did their best to haul Bombur from the river, and he was doing his best to think of what he might need to do.

Insects were hovering in thick clouds in the brightness of the lights, but Bilbo didn’t bother to swat them away as he knelt down and opened his bag. Tinfoil blanket tucked into the side pocket would be useful, might need to think about CPR so the pocket mask would be needed, the water was fairly rancid so prophylaxis? Would he need to worry about that just yet? He arranged the things he thought he might need at the top of the bag, adding a couple bandages and plasters to the pile in case the dwarf had caught himself against the bridge as he had been swept downstream.

There was a ragged cheer from amid the darkness, and then a shout to not relax just bloody yet in Dwalin’s dulcet tones. Bilbo stood up and stretched his fingers out, cricking his neck this way and that to limber up for whatever he might have to do. The thought of having to give rescue breaths was bad enough, but the idea of trying to give Bombur CPR, with no backup in a forest, was enough to send shivers down his spine.

Dwalin, Thorin, Bifur and Bofur carried their fallen comrade into the middle of the headlights, followed closely by the rest of the dwarves.

“Unless I tell you to come forward, I want everyone to stay well back,” said Bilbo, flitting forward to spread a blanket over the ground before they set Bombur down. The poor dwarf was soaked through and cold to the touch, so he demanded that Gloin start another fire, and suggested that Bofur and Bifur might like to help him. They didn’t look thrilled at being separated – Bofur least of all – but Gloin was a sensible chap and forcibly pushed them off to find wood for the fire.

Bilbo’s attention turned back to Bombur. He had brush the dwarf’s moustaches and beard out of the way to make sure his airway was open, and then bent his head low to listen and feel for any breathing, his fingers struggling to find the carotid pulse point under the combination of heavy jowls and multiple chins. But Bilbo Baggins was nothing if not determined, and his fingers found a crease on the dwarf’s neck where the fat was thinnest and the throb of a pulse echoed through. It was fast, but steady and there was a regular hiss of breath brushing Bilbo’s cheek.

“He’s alive,” said Bilbo firmly, grabbing a pen torch from the bag and holding the dwarf’s eyes open to check his pupils. They both constricted, though not as much as he would have liked to have seen, so Bilbo moved on once more. He called Bofur back over, and together they stripped Bombur of the majority of his sodden clothes and bundled him up in as many blankets as they could find. Gloin’s fire was blazing well by then, and Bilbo was fairly sure Bombur wouldn’t be too cold like that. While he’d been making sure he was well cozied up, the doctor had already checked for injuries and found nothing worse than a few bruises and scratches that had clearly been sustained a while back in the chaos that had followed the goblin caves. He had even thoroughly felt about Bombur’s skull for any shifts in the bone and had flicked the light in his eyes again, but nothing had moved and the pupils still constricted sluggishly.

“Why won’t he wake?” asked Bofur. He was kneeling beside his brother, squeezing his hat between his hands anxiously. Bilbo sighed and reached over to give the other dwarf a comforting squeeze on the forearm.

“He’s breathing, his pulse is good and his pupils are reacting well,” said Bilbo, thinking through the other minor tests he’d performed as he’d gone along. All of them had been relatively normal, with nothing that left out as supremely bad. As far as why Bombur wouldn’t bloody wake up, no matter how he was prodded and poked and moved and shouted at – for Bofur had momentarily lost his cool a few minutes before when helping Bilbo and had to be dragged away by Bifur until he had regained his senses – that was a mystery. Given an A&E and a ward’s worth of investigative equipment, Bilbo thought he might have had a chance.

Right now, he was going to have to go with a watch and wait approach, and that was always so _frustrating_.

“Let’s get him into one of the cars,” he said, straightening and standing, wincing as his spine popped and cracked loudly. Bending over patients like this was definitely a young doctor’s game – Bilbo was starting to see another reason why all the foundation year doctors had to do the dirty work for their consultants. “And let’s keep him warm. I can’t do much more for him if he won’t wake and he stays like this.”

The dwarves cleared out the boot of the car Bofur, Bombur and Bifur had been sharing earlier and loaded their sleeping companion in instead. He fitted quite nicely, as it had been an estate car and there was plenty of room for him to sprawl out. Bilbo clambered up too briefly, to check his basic life signs once more and peer into his eyes. Then thoroughly discouraged, he hopped back down and looked about the campsite.

Light was starting to filter through the trees above them, which made Bilbo’s back hurt even more at the realisation of how long he had spent bent over his dwarf patient, and he could see the grey outline of the bridge under which Bombur had taken his tumble. The other dwarves were dividing the cargo they’d taken from Bofur’s car and were reloading it. Thorin was overseeing everything with a grim expression on his face, and none of the other bearded visages were much cheerier. Bilbo padded through them all, wishing he could say something better than he had offered to Bofur, but he knew it would mean so little to them. Bombur wasn’t waking up and that was the important bit, not that he was stable and for all other intents and purposes apparently healthy.

The hobbit doctor was deep in thought as he went to repack his medical bag, making absent notes of everything he’d used as he did so, and didn’t notice the approach of heavy feet behind him until Thorin tapped him on the shoulder.

“Don’t do that!” wheezed Bilbo, once he’d overcome his brief fright and unclenched his hand from round the scalpel he’d instinctively grabbed – he didn’t like how quickly it had come to hand. “Is everyone else all right?”

“Worried,” said Thorin shortly, casting a grim gaze over the car where Bombur lay. “What else can be done?”

Bilbo shrugged helplessly and focused on repacking a glucose meter. “I can’t see any outward reason why he should still be sleeping, nor many inward reasons. I would get him to a hospital as soon as possible.”

“The nearest hospital is the wood-elves,” growled Thorin, looking displeased. “If only we could call the eagles again! But Gandalf has left us and I do not know the method of asking for their help.”

“I think we should drive on,” said Bilbo firmly, “As fast as we can. Perhaps there was some toxin in the water. The Mirkwood doctors will know what to do if that is the case, and if it is not then they will know how to figure the problem out.” He rolled his eyes and Thorin’s face twisted a bit more, and added, “And just because they are elves and you are dwarves does not mean they will refuse him treatment. We are _doctors_.”

The dwarf lord gave a great sigh and then nodded reluctantly, stormy blue eyes meeting Bilbo’s determined gaze. “All right, Dr Baggins, we shall have it your way. We drive on.” He stepped in close and inclined his head so his mouth was right next to Bilbo’s pointed ear. “You are impressive, when you are doctoring people.”

Bilbo blushed but held his ground until Thorin chuckled deeply and strode off to share the plan with the others.

 

* * *

 

Before much more light had eased through the trees, the company had moved off. They travelled much faster today, so that Bilbo had to brace himself against the door and the dashboard with his elbows and feet, and even that didn’t stop him briefly taking flight whenever the car would hit a pothole or a root.

Bilbo kept an eye on the passenger wing mirror, on Bofur’s estate car travelling directly behind them, and pondered over all that he could do for the unconscious dwarf therein.

They travelled through to noon and lunch, when they only stopped for a few minutes to share out the rations and get back into their cars again. By the time night was encroaching again, the company had been travelling all day and Bilbo was feeling exhausted and a little bit carsick, no longer paying as much attention to the cars behind.

Finally Thorin grunted and reached out to shake Bilbo’s shoulder. The hobbit hadn’t been quite asleep, but he still started and stretched in response to the touch.

“Hmm?”

“Bofur wants us to stop, by the look of it,” grunted the dwarf lord, flicking on the car’s hazard lights and craning his neck to find a good place to stop. In the end he just pulled in to the side of the road, and Bilbo was hopping out of the car, slinging his borrowed stethoscope around his neck and trotting back to the estate car to open the boot and clamber in.

“He woke briefly,” said Bofur, leaning over the rear seat and watching Bilbo’s actions closely. “Muttered something about cakes and dancing and then went all quiet again.”

“All right…” Bilbo shook the big dwarf’s shoulders as best as he could, and bellowed, “Bombur! Bombur, can you hear me?!” but there wasn’t even a twitch as a response. He pinched and prodded and poked at various areas, but even that didn’t garner anything. Deeply disappointed, Bilbo stepped back onto the grass and shook his head. “Nothing. He’s still breathing and his pulse is good and strong, but he’s definitely unconscious again.”

Bofur’s lips pursed, and Bilbo thought the expression of supreme misery didn’t suit the cheeriest of all his dwarf companions in the slightest. Bilbo felt moved to try and comfort him, but all the words he could think of sounded trite and useless, so he settled for a pat on the arm and scurrying back to the safety of Thorin.

The dwarf lord was standing with his nephews and Balin, staring off through the thick undergrowth with a preoccupied expression on his face.

“-telling you,” Kili was saying as Bilbo pattered up, “It’s a light.”

“Yes, we can see that,” said Fili, “But what is making the light, is what I want to know.”

Kili threw his hands in the air. “What does it matter?”

“I’ve seen will-o-the-wisps lead wise dwarfs to their deaths,” said Balin grimly, “And there are even more dangerous things in this forest. It would be a risky business to tramp all that way in and not know what we face.”

Bilbo peered through the undergrowth thoughtfully – if he strained his eyes he could see a dim line of flickering lights in the distance, but he couldn’t pinpoint the source. It was a happy light though, not a menacing red flicker and Bilbo said as much. Then he realised that the other dwarves were all staring at him thoughtfully.

“Dr Baggins is very light on his feet,” said Balin thoughtfully, and Bilbo’s heart sunk to the region of his hairy toes. “And he moves fast.”

Thorin grunted reluctantly, and gave Bilbo a slow once over. Bilbo stared back defiantly, quite aware that whatever Thorin said next he was going to be annoyed at him. Casting any doubts on Bilbo’s abilities would go down just as badly as volunteering the hobbit to go alone, so Bilbo decided to relieve the pressure of the decision off his dwarf’s shoulders and made it himself. He was the company's burglar after all, it was technically his job to go sneaking.

“I will go,” he said, “And have a look. Just give me a second.”

Bilbo returned to the car to put his stethoscope down and hunted out his scalpel to tuck in his pocket, made sure his ring was in easy reach in his waistcoat pocket and returned to the group of dwarves. “Right. I’m going in.”

Thorin caught his arm and leant in. “Are you sure? These woods are dangerous, and I would not send you in on your own.”

“As Balin said, I’m quiet on my feet, and a group of dwarves tramping through the forest with me will completely rob us of that advantage.”

The dwarf king rumbled, but he squeezed the hobbit’s arm reassuringly and turned back to the forest. “Take only a few minutes,” he said, “And make sure you keep an eye on where you have come from at all times.”

Bilbo nodded, glanced about the road to ensure he recognised the shapes of the trees lining the path, and stepped off into the woods. It was immediately darker, and the leaf litter was variably damp and crunchy under his feet. Occasionally he would stand on a mushroom or a toadstool, or something indeterminable and rotting, and have to resist the urge to leap about in disgust at the feeling. More often he would stop and look back to catch the line of diminishing light from the road, where Thorin was silhouetted as a broad figure.

The light ahead of him grew brighter and wider, and then noise crept to Bilbo’s ears as well, music and laughter. He paused behind a shrub to slip on his ring, and then snuck forward further, eyes wide in the shadow world the ring brought on.

He came to the edge of a circle, breaking out from under the cover of the trees to crawl through a layer of bushes until he had a good view of the clearing ahead.

There were great circles of tree stumps and tree trunks sliced in two to act as huge tables. Amid all of this furniture were elves, but none of them like the elves in Rivendell and Lothlorien in their sophisticated clothes and their calm temperaments. These elves were wearing old-fashioned outfits, some of them in robes and some in breeches and embroidered over tunics and boots. Some of them were dancing and twirling joyously to the tunes of the band, and others were laughing happily over great flagons of a dark wine. Bilbo regretted having to wear the ring, because he could imagine the sight the gathering would be if he could see everything in glorious colour. Nowhere else on Middle Earth did elves behave like this anymore, which Bilbo thought was a dreadful pity. They even had their king up at the head of the gathering – the Elvenking Thranduil was seated in a wooden throne, a crown of woodland berries and leaves on his golden hair. Bilbo thought he looked rather spiffing, even if he was still dressed in green scrubs and did occasionally bow his head to check the beeper on his hip.

Thranduil, King of the A&E, thought Bilbo Baggins and giggled to himself behind his hands.

He returned to the dwarves at the road after only a few moments where he feared he’d gotten lost, took off his ring and explained all he’d seen. Thorin seemed particularly displeased at the thought of wood elves, but Bilbo had a point to make so he spoke fast and firmly.

“I can’t do much more with Bombur at the moment,” he said, fighting the urge to wring his hands guiltily. “But the wood-elves will know about the effects that river has had on him. They have a hospital. That’s what he needs right now, not another day lying in the boot of a car while I fuss over himself uselessly.”

Thorin growled and grumbled and rolled his eyes, but in the end they decided on taking a vote, and the ayes for taking Bombur to the wood-elves and asking for help had it in the end, with Bofur and Bifur’s hands rising first as soon as the option was posed.

A makeshift stretcher had to be built to lift Bombur out of the car and carry him through the forest, because it was decided that the elves would be more favourable to the company if they proved they had a casualty amongst their numbers first off. No one could be persuaded to stay with the cars either, so in the end Bilbo ended up leading a column of twelve dwarves and one sleeping Bombur back through the forest to the elf circle.

Thorin stepped out into the ring, past the bushes and the trees, first, with Bofur and Fili supporting Bombur’s stretcher not far behind, but the dwarf lord barely managed to open his mouth before all the band’s instruments shrieked to a stop, the fires were kicked out in a flurry of dust and the dwarves all dropped to the ground like stones. Bilbo looked about for a second or two, astonished and more than a little horrified, before a wave of darkness washed down his spine and he barely had time to feel his head connect with the grassy ground before he was fast asleep as well.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo woke with a start and a groan, all his body parts feeling as though they’d been hollowed out and filled with cotton. The forest canopy was split above his head and he could see the sky, grim cloud cover making it hard to tell what time of the day it was.

Something brushed against his foot, and he wriggled his toes in annoyance to dislodge it. Trying to remember what had happened was a bit of a chore – something to do with the elves, and there had been dancing and joy and then darkness… The thing brushed his sole again, firmer this time and prompting tickles even on his tough hobbit callouses. Bilbo kicked out with his other foot, feeling something firm which gave a reedy grunt and a clacking noise.

Oh dear. If Doctor Bilbo Baggins had just kicked the great  Thorin Oakenshield in the nose, there were going to be troubles on the rest of the quest. Bilbo eased himself up onto his elbows, the highest position he could take while his head was still so full of wool, and looked down apologetically.

It was not Thorin who was just in the process of taking the hobbit’s foot up in a firm grip again. Nor was it any of the other dwarves. Nor an elf.

It was the World’s Largest Spider, blinking six huge iridescent eyes – the other two were firmly closed where Bilbo had kicked it – as it clicked its pincers and absently licked the sole of Bilbo’s foot. This was very upsetting to poor Bilbo’s constitution, and he swore quite rudely for some time, until the spider grew tired of his bad language and the taste of foot and moved up as if to silence him. Bilbo snatched up the nearest thing he could find and brained the beast with a big rock.

“Ow!” it complained, clutching two pairs of hairy legs to its head and weaving backwards. Bilbo scrambled up and plunged his hands through his pockets to find his scalpel, with its fresh and sharp blade. “Nasty thing,” it continued, and Bilbo found its reedy, nasal voice particularly unpleasant, especially as he couldn’t quite tell just how it was talking. “Why can’t you just be quiet like the others?”

Bilbo, for want of anything else to do and feeling rather desperate in the face of an arachnid that was twice as big again as himself, replied by way of a stab wound to one of many eye sockets. Things went ‘pop’ and ‘ping’ under his blade, and the spider flailed all of its limbs at once and went limp.

“Nasty thing!” another voice echoed, and the hobbit swivelled about to see an even bigger World’s Largest Spider crouching over the slumbering form of a dwarf, fangs bared and venom dripping from the tips. It had clearly been binding the sleeping dwarves into handy snack-packs one by one, and, as far as a spider could look displeased, this one seemed unhappy that it had been interrupted. “And it’s got a sting as well! How hateful!” It clicked its pincers and advanced.

Nothing could advance like a spider, all legs and clicking and malevolence. Bilbo was beginning to understand why all the wood elves from Mirkwood he had ever met were covered in scars; how did anybody survive with these horrible things around? Bilbo didn’t even like house spiders very much, but at least those you could trap in a glass. Bilbo waved his scalpel threateningly, but the dratted thing continued on anyway, and he was forced to dive under its dripping jaws and drive the scalpel into a soft underbelly, spluttering with disgust as ichor rained down on him and the spider nearly toppled onto him.

Cursing again in horror, Bilbo hauled himself out from under the spider’s corpse and ran back to the piles of dwarf. They were all bound up well in spider webs, so Bilbo had to scrabble and slice with his scalpel, his sting as the spider had called it, until he freed the first of the dwarves from the web. This one was Bombur, snoozing peacefully in his wrapping, and Bilbo simply made sure he was breathing before he moved on. The next bundle’s nose protruded from the silk, so Bilbo supposed it was Fili trapped inside. When he was freed, he was as fast asleep as Bombur had already been, with a pair of nasty puncture wounds on the side of his throat. The area around the wounds was swollen and red and the wounds were weeping slightly.

“Blasted spiders,” hissed Bilbo, testing the Durin brother’s pulse and finding it weak and fast. When the spiders had come across them, they must have bitten the sleeping dwarves to make sure they were weak enough to wrap up and keep captive, and Bilbo had no clue what he could do about that. Should he run back and fetch the med kit Beorn had sent with them? Or should he just go and fetch one of the cars and try to load as many of them in as he could? But he had no idea if there was a suitable antidote in the kit, and there was certainly no way he would be able to fit all thirteen dwarves into even the biggest vehicle. The only other options included him just running for help, or staying put.

Things were clattering in the trees around them now, and Bilbo moved quickly to free the rest of the Company and check they were still amongst the living. None of them would wake, not even Thorin, whenever the doctor gripped their shoulders and rubbed their sternums with his knuckle, shouting their names as loudly as he dared.

“What is this?” something with a nasal voice cried out, leaves rustling and branches cracking. Bilbo didn’t look up until he had freed the last dwarf – Gloin, who’s beard had gotten thoroughly tangled with webs – and finally turned around with his scalpel drawn and steady.

Oh. That was a range of spiders in front of him, all black and brown hairy-legged monsters with dripping jaws and pincers and stings. Bilbo had to take a deep breath to steady himself and then managed a strangled laugh.

“Come on then!” he said, “Come on attercop! Come on tomnoddy! Come and catch me!”

The biggest spider clicked and clacked with rage. “You dare call us such names! What a rude little fly!”

“I have a sting too!” warned Bilbo, dancing forward and slicing at a many-jointed legs that came too close and dancing back to his original position.

“A tiny little sting!” squealed the spider. “Try mine!” It pounced forward, all its eyes glittering eerily, and Bilbo squawked and fell over trying to get away. The arachnid’s sting plunged into the grass by his hip and the hobbit rolled to the side and slashed out with his scalpel, carving a nasty little hole in the creatures flank and making it scream and howl. It staggered away and Bilbo was able to stagger to his feet as another couple spider sprung onto the wounded one and dragged it back into the forest. Bilbo was fairly sure they weren’t intending to offer first aid.

More spiders began to swarm, and the doctor began to panic. He could hold off one spider at a time but not this hellish gathering. Before long he was more than out of breath from having to dive this way and that to ward them away from the slumbering dwarves, and he could tell that he was going to have to stop very soon or risk collapse himself.

Sirens sang out and the spiders froze and clattered their horrid jaws, making scared skittering noises. Bilbo stabbed a particularly fat one in the leg while they were distracted and then backed up to the heaps of groaning, grumbling dwarves, trying to spot the source of the noise.

Blue and red light flickered through the thick foliage, and the spiders began to wail in their reedy voices and scuttle back to the depths of the forest as vehicles began to pour down the logging track.

Ambulances! Of all the things!  There were other cars and vans as well - a few had a rather telling 'spider control' sign emblazoned on the side - and elves were pouring out of them.  For a moment Bilbo was afraid the police were going to be the ones dealing with the dwarves,  unconscious or not,  and he reached into his web sticky pocket to slip on his ring a d vanish from sight.  Thankfully all the police did was set up a cordon around the edge of the elf circle and helped to shoo the remaining spiders in to the clutches of spider control and it was the paramedics who advanced upon the dwarves instead. 

Nevertheless Bilbo kept his ring on,  not really keen to show himself just yet.  He snuck up to the elf who was peeling Thorin out of the spider's wrapping attempts and watched over an overall covered shoulder as the elf checked for pulse and breathing and hunted out the twin holes where the spiders poison had been delivered. 

“We’ll take them in,” said the elf, pausing to look around the circle and wrinkle its nose at the spider corpses that had already littered the grass. “And we shall do it quickly. There’ll be more spiders along in a minute.”

Bilbo took a moment to regain the rest of his breath, made sure his ring was on tightly and then followed the elves that hauled Thorin into their ambulance. He had to move fast to get in before they slammed the doors.

Another ambulance trip. Bilbo couldn’t say he was overly thrilled about that, but at least he was safe from the spiders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, real life strikes again. Plus spiders. Lots of spiders.


End file.
